Death, Fate, and Free Will
by frolicfeather
Summary: Draco Malfoy has a secret, a destiny of cosmic proportions known only by a select few. For years he has tried to run from it, but as the war wages on, Harry Potter struggles with his fate as the Chosen One, and Voldemort plays with ancient, dark forces that even he cannot control, the truth may be impossible to hide. Featuring romance,drama,mystery! 6th year
1. Prologue

Extended Summary: Draco Malfoy has a secret, a secret so important that he'd go to any lengths to protect it. And as he fights to keep it hidden, as Harry attempts to reconcile with his destiny and with the deaths of his friends and mentors, as Ron grapples with his jealousy toward the "Chosen One," as Hermione begins to wonder if her devotion to learning alone is more shackle than gift, and as Ginny bitterly tries to escape the control of her family, Voldemort and his Death Eaters close in. This is a story of drama and duty, sex and violence, death and passion, of people's innermost demons and loftiest dreams, and above all of the cosmic forces that connect it all together.

Author's Note: I've had the concept for this story for a very long time, and I was starting to sense my other HP Fanfic gravitating toward these ideas and themes, so I decided I might as well write it up. It's starting the summer before 6th year and (hopefully) go through the end of 7th. I'm aiming to incorporate a number of story lines, give attention to a whole cast of characters (although Harry and Draco will be the main characters) and topics from the book, and of course portray a number of different ships (There'll be various levels of D/Her, H/Her, R/Her, H/G, B/G, D/A...I'm not hinting as to what the final pairings will be though!) Any suggestions and comments are appreciated!

Disclaimers: This story is rated T for now, but it will very likely change to M in later chapters. And of course, the characters and world are all JK Rowling's.

**

* * *

PROLOGUE**

_Sirius is dead. _The thought kept repeating itself in Harry's mind. It was the only thing he had been able to think of consistently since he'd returned to Privet Drive. He couldn't care less that Cornelius Fudge had been replaced as Minister of Magic by Rufus Scrimgeour or that the _Prophet_ was printing dozens of public apologies and "Chosen One" articles each week or that either Ron or Hermione was writing to him nearly every other day. He hadn't even tried to come to terms with the prophecy Albus Dumbledore had told him. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that he had mentioned the letter in passing to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia when it had arrived a week ago, he wouldn't have remembered that Dumbledore was coming this very evening to pick him up and take him to Grimmauld Place for the remainder of the summer.

As it were, Vernon had been griping about the arrival of "another magical freak" all day - going so far as to send Dudley to a friend's home for the long weekend - Petunia's face had remained frozen in an expression of silent, stoic disgust, and Harry had distractedly managed to pack his suitcase and send Hedwig ahead to Grimmauld. At the moment he was sitting on an armchair in the living room, his fingers continually fidgeting, and the thought still running through his mind: _Sirius is dead_.

"Damn good-for-nothing," Vernon mumbled. He'd be muttering under his breath the entire day in a stark contrast to Petunia's absolute silence. "Coming here, disrupting our household, bringing other dangerous _maniacs_ to our door…" Looking for a reaction, he cast his eyes from the couch over to Harry. When, as had been the case all summer, the boy gave him nothing more than a blank and bored expression, he continued his complaints. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he wants something. These types of people always do. Why else is he personally com –"

Petunia shrieked as the doorbell suddenly rang and she shot her husband an expression that seemed to be approaching panic. For his part, Vernon clammed up as quickly as if someone had turned his mouth off with a switch, all overt desire to make his mind known gone. When the bell rang again and neither of them got up to answer, Harry rolled his eyes and walked to the door, wondering how they could possibly imagine this could be worse than the arrival of the Weasleys two summers ago. Vernon and Petunia followed a good distance behind him, holding each other closely, Petunia whimpering at regular intervals.

His poor mood notwithstanding, Harry almost laughed aloud when he looked through the peep hole and saw the deep blue of Dumbledore's eye staring straight back at him.

"Interested in Muggle architecture Professor?" Harry asked as he opened the door with a thin smile.

"I daresay, I have always been thoroughly impressed with those who live so fruitfully without the conveniences of magic. Those are lovely flowers." Harry didn't turn around, but he could imagine Uncle Vernon's face getting redder and redder at the sight of the thin old man with the flowing silver beard and hair and the long, purple, star and moon-covered robes standing on his porch talking about magic. It was bad enough to him that a man like Dumbledore was planning to _enter_ his home, but the mere thought that others might _see_ him would be intolerable.

Instead of entering the house immediately, however, and sparing the Dursleys the potential horror of having a neighbor note his presence, Dumbledore stood at the doorway twiddling his thumbs and smiling politely.

"W – would you like to come in Professor?" Harry inquired, after over half a minute had passed awkwardly.

"That would be wonderful Harry, but it would be awfully rude to enter a house into which I have not yet been invited." Dumbledore's expression was the quintessence of politesse, but Harry could tell by the twinkle in his eye that he was finding the all-too-uncomfortable situation amusing. His poor mood notwithstanding, even he couldn't completely suppress a smile.

"C – c - come in," Petunia finally said in a brisk, icy voice. They were the first words she had spoken that evening.

Dumbledore nodded, "My most sincere apologies for interrupting you at this late hour. I intended to arrive by seven this evening, but alas, I was detained."

"Detained by what?" Harry asked quickly.

Dumbledore seemed a little surprised at Harry's tone as he turned to face him, but he spoke with the same clean voice and polite demeanor as he had before. "A favor for the Ministry. They requested some assistance determining the clearance of a future employee. Considering our recent history I would have declined, but I am for better or worse a firm believer in giving people second – or third – chances."

Harry furrowed his brows in confusion, but before he could press further Uncle Vernon found his voice. "N – now you listen here," he began, drawing himself up to his full height. "None of this. M – mag – your _thing_ and your M – Minis – your government…I won't have it in this house anymore I tell you! Jus – just _take_ the boy and you don't bring him back you hear me!"

"My pleasure," Harry muttered under his breath as he grabbed his suitcase.

Dumbledore continued smiling politely, "Mr. Dursley, these dark times will be hard for everyone, wizard and Muggle alike, bu - "

"For everyone?," Vernon interrupted, ignoring his wife's whispered 'Vernon, no.' "_Everyone_? No, this – this is YOUR problem that – that YOU PEOPLE are pushing on OUR family."

"You think this isn't going to affect you whether I'm here or not?" Harry finally snapped. "Voldemort's not going to _stop_ with _wizards_ or even with _ME_. He wants t - "

Harry cut off his outburst with difficulty as Dumbledore placed a firm hand on his shoulder, but didn't interrupt.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore began, in that low and calm voice of both knowing and authority that never failed to render most audiences silent and respectful. "I can only imagine what it is like to be caught in the middle of a war you neither understand nor, with all due respect, want to. I can reassure you that as long as Harry remains underage, neither Voldemort nor his followers can come near you."

By now, Petunia was holding on to her husband's hand so tightly the veins in her arms were bulging. Vernon looked as if he was seriously considering running from underneath Dumbledore's gaze and out of the room with his wife behind him, but the mere thought of leaving two wizards alone in his house must have stayed him.

"A – and whe – when he t –turns of age?" Vernon stammered.

Dumbledore smiled, "The Order will be here for you Mr. Dursley. After all, we too are, in some way, family."

Both Vernon and Petunia instantly looked offended, but before either could object Dumbledore smiled more widely, "Come Harry. If we delay any longer Ron and Hermione are going to think _I'm_ the one trying to kidnap you."

Harry didn't laugh. He grabbed his suitcase and broomstick and nodded briskly toward his aunt and uncle. "I suppose I'll see you next summer," he muttered. They didn't reply, nor did Vernon shake Dumbledore's outreached hand. He didn't seem to mind, complimenting the layout of the living room one last time before following Harry into the yard.

"Ready to go Harry?" Dumbledore asked, leading him to a dark area between the bushes and garage.

He shrugged halfheartedly, "Not particularly Professor."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow quizzically, "I can't imagine you would prefer to stay with your aunt and uncle?"

"I'd prefer not to go to Grimmauld Place," Harry said more firmly.

Dumbledore looked at him closely. "I promised I would be more open with you Harry," he finally said. "I intend to keep that promise, but later tonight. Now. Take my arm."

Harry swallowed his frustration and grabbed Dumbledore's arm without a question. Suddenly, he felt his stomach drop, his body compressed inward, and his arm wrenched to the side. He shut his eyes tightly and when they were opened, he and Dumbledore were standing in the middle of Grimmauld Square. "Wow," he whispered.

"Side-along apparition," Dumbledore explained with a little amusement in voice. "An odd feeling for the first time. I suggest you eat lightly for the next few hours. Although I'm certain Molly will object rather bitterly to any refusals of food."

Harry stretched and shook his head quickly, trying to refocus and listen to Dumbledore as they walked toward the house. "The Order has added further protections," Dumbledore explained, "It's now impossible to apparate within five blocks of Grimmauld Place. Any Portkeys plotted within the same perimeter will be rerouted to the Ministry, as long as their security departments remain protected and un-infiltrated of course. And there are now Body-Binding and Tongue-Tying curses on the front door that specifically target our known Death Eaters. All that's left to take care of is Kreacher, and that you can do Harry."

"Me?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore paused with his hand on the doorknob and Harry once again felt those deep blue eyes x-ray through him. "Sirius left you everything," Dumbledore finally said. "That would include the house-elf."

Harry felt his throat tighten and a familiar knot form in his chest. Fortunately, he didn't have time to let it fester. He and Dumbledore had barely walked into the hallway before a loud female voice cried out, "Harry!"

Hermione ran down the hall and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh my God how are you?" she began quickly, "You've barely been replying to our letters. We were starting to get wo - "

"Damn Hermione," Ron laughed from the dining room door. "Slow down. You almost knocked over Professor Dumbledore."

Hermione's face flushed. "Oh! Professor, I'm so sor - "

Dumbledore raised his hand to stop her, "Nothing to worry about Miss Granger." He motioned for Harry to follow him into the dining room as Hermione went on.

"But really Harry you could have at least writtenback more than _twice_." She dropped her voice, "We thought that after everything with, you know, the prophecy and Si …"

Harry had no inclination to talk about Sirius at the moment. It must have read all over his face, because Hermione's voice trailed off and Ron quickly reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "Hey mate," he mumbled, "Good to see you."

"_Harry_." Molly put down the stack of plates she was carrying and walked over to give him a huge hug. "Oh Harry, you're so thin. What do those people _feed _you?"

"You can treat Harry's impending starvation in a few minutes Molly," Dumbledore said calmly, "Where is Kreacher?"

Molly sighed in frustration, "In that room of his, thank goodness. He made a special effort to be a nuisance today. Set off Walburga Black for hours." She shot a dark look in the direction of Mrs. Black's giant portrait. "Really Dumbledore, are you sure there's no way to get her removed?"

"I'll look further into it Molly," he promised. "Although for now we should continue to resign ourselves to sharing the house with Walburga." He turned toward Harry, "We all understand that you might not want to see Kreacher right now Harry, but considering his talent for finding loopholes in orders and his newfound…discovery of other family members, it would be best for the Order if he had very firm and limiting orders. As his master – and yes, Harry, you are his master now – you're the only one who can give him orders."

Harry didn't even try to keep the disgust off his face, "You want me to give him orders to stay put and not talk to anyone."

"I would actually suggest ordering him to work at Hogwarts."

"Merlin no," Ron muttered, ignoring Hermione's disapproving look. "He'll poison our food."

"Oh really Ron," Molly scolded as she walked out into the entryway and toward the set of stairs that led to the kitchen. "Kreacher!" she shouted. "Kreacher!" There was no reply, nor any sound of someone moving up the stairs. Molly reentered the room looking quite flustered, "Oh he won't come up. He never does until we don't want him."

The more they talked about Kreacher, the angrier Harry felt he was becoming. He pushed by Hermione and shouted out the door. "Kreacher come here!" he snapped loudly, "That's an order!"

"Really Harry," Hermione whispered disapprovingly.

He ignored her and continued standing at the door, "_Kreacher_."

They finally heard the house-elf grumbling up the steps. Without saying a word, he came to stand at the door and looked up at Harry with a look of disgust that rivaled his own.

"Kreacher," Harry began, trying to keep his anger under control. "I want you to go work at Hogwarts from now on. And don't leave the castle. In – in fact, don't go anywhere within the castle where you're not needed for work. And – and don't _talk_ to the Malfoys or any of their friends or relatives or as a mater of fact to absolutely anyone in Slytherin. Actually, just – just don't talk to _anyone_ there but –but the other-house elves and faculty members. And _never_ talk about what you've seen or heard here. Is that clear?"

Kreacher didn't say anything at first, but after biting the inside of his mouth and swaying from side to side in apparent inner agony finally managed to spit out, "Certainly _master_." The last word sounded like vomit. A few seconds later, he had disappeared.

"That was little harsh Harry," Hermione objected. "He's barely going to be able to leave the kitchens."

"He deserves it," Harry spat.

"Amen to that," grumbled a brusque voice from the hallway. "Good to see you in one piece Harry," Moody said, shaking his hand firmly.

"Oh really Alastor," Molly rolled her eyes, "Stop being so grim."

"Not grim, vigilant. For all we know those Muggles could have put a price on his head."

Ron bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud and even Dumbledore smiled. "Please," he began, "before I leave Harry to your welcoming arms, I'd like to speak to him again…in private."

The amused looks that had grown on the faces of everyone but Moody fell, and Ron and Hermione looked anxiously after Harry as he followed Dumbledore up to the drawing room on the first floor. The latter sat at the writing desk and motioned for Harry to pull up a chair. He shook his head and stood standing.

"How are you Harry?" Dumbledore finally asked.

Harry shrugged again, "Fine."

Dumbledore looked at him over his spectacles, "Fine? Really Harry, if you're going to lie to me at the least be more creative."

"The closest person I ever had to a loving father is dead and it's my fault," Harry snapped angrily, "How do you _think_ I feel…sir?"

Dumbledore ignored the tone and looked at him calmly. "It wasn't your fault Harry."

"If I hadn't go - "

"If," Dumbledore interrupted, "And if I had been open with you, or if another wizard had been fighting Bellatrix, or if your Occlumency lessons had gone better, or if Umbridge hadn't been at Hogwarts, or if Sirius had been less reckless, or if others who could have helped immeasurably had chosen to…There are innumerable 'ifs' Harry. In the end they mean very little."

Harry swallowed heavily, but didn't reply. He felt the sudden need to hold back tears.

"There are many things in this world worth living to fight for," Dumbledore continued, "and perhaps even more worth dying to defend. Sirius ran his life by that notion, no matter what may have happened to him. He'd want you to as well."

Dumbledore stopped to look at him, and Harry was silent for a minute. Then he sighed reluctantly. "I've barely thought about the pro…the prophecy."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, "Might I suggest that you tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger about it. What we admit aloud is often easiest to understand and to accept."

Harry nodded. He was relieved to hear Dumbledore give permission to share what he'd told; a part of him knew it would lessen the burden.

"The prophecy, however," Dumbledore continued with a heavy sigh, "is only the beginning."

"The beginning?" Harry said, frustration rising in his voice again. "You said you would tell me everything."

Dumbledore raised a hand, "About the prophecy. There is much more than that which I need to show and teach you Harry."

He nodded, "Thank you Professor."

"We'll start, weekly, when I return."

Harry's mouth fell open, "When you return?"

"Calm," Dumbledore raised his hand again. "I understand why you're angry Harry, but this time you really do have no reason to want to attack me. In fact what I…what I must do will directly inform what I must teach you. It will be a weekend, likely a week at most."

Harry almost objected, but the finality in Dumbledore's voice was absolute. He nodded again and let him continue.

"In the meantime, there'll be enough to keep you occupied." He cleared his throat and reached for a stack of letters on the desk, "Many young wizards, Harry, spend the some of their summer following OWLs in a practical work environment, an internship of sorts."

"I guess there must have been a brochure about that last spring," Harry replied slowly. "I – I have to admit I wasn't really focused."

Dumbledore smiled, "I know. So Professor McGonagall said." He ignored Harry's blush and handed him the envelopes, "Your OWL results. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger's as well. You should be proud Harry; they are quite impressive. Impressive enough for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to invite you to work with them this summer."

Harry's mouth fell open again, this time in shock and confusion instead of anger. "W – what?" he stammered.

"The Auror, Arctor, and Law Enforcement Summer Internship is among the most prestigious of opportunities that the Ministry offers for student wizards."

"I – I want no – I want nothing to _do_ with the Ministry," Harry insisted. "Especially after last year."

Dumbledore nodded calmly, "Understandable of course. But the Ministry is changing. Rufus Scrimgeour is a dedicated man. He won't take Voldemort lightly. And it's an excellent opportunity if you want to be an Auror. For one summer you will undergo the Auror training regiment, the Auror procedures, the Auror paperwork…You'll see what the Ministry knows about Death Eaters, what they can and can't handle, and what they are willing to do." He smiled, "Life must go on Harry. We should remember that. Voldemort would like to disrupt every aspect of our existence. We mustn't let him."

Harry opened his mouth to object again, but Dumbledore sighed and clapped his hands together. "Now Harry, if I keep you here much longer Molly might go into a panic. I imagine you want to sit and catch up with your friends no?"

It was an obvious indication that he was being dismissed and Dumbledore's eyes were looking at him over his spectacles as if he were daring Harry to argue. In the end, he merely smiled again. "Thanks Professor."

"I'll see you soon Harry. We have much to do."

Harry nodded and left the room. As he walked back downstairs, he looked at the envelopes in his hand for the first time. It was almost funny; after everything that had happened, he'd almost forgotten that he'd taken exams that under normal circumstances would play a huge part in the future course of his education and occupation. He almost felt a little nervous. But then Dumbledore had said they were strong scores…

"Harry!" A friendly voice shouted from the dining room table. A pink-haired Tonks waved at him from the table. She seemed skinnier and more drawn than before, but Harry barely had time to notice the changes before Lupin walked over and hugged him tightly. "Good to see Harry. Hope you're alright."

He nodded quickly and smiled. By the time he'd been greeted by Kingsley, Fred and George, and a reluctant Mundungus Fletcher – and had his skinniness reexamined by Mrs. Weasley again – he'd almost forgotten about the letters in his hand.

"What are those?" Hermione asked when he sat down next to her.

"Oh," Harry exclaimed. "Our OWL scores."

"WHAT?" For the second time that evening, Hermione almost knocked him over. "Merlin Harry why didn't you _tell _us? I suppose Dumbledore gave them to you. I've been wondering why they hadn't come yet. I knew they'd been _released_. Both Neville and Seamus mentioned them in their letters."

"She's been panicking," Ron muttered form Harry's other side. "Thought her scores must have been so low that Dumbledore was considering kicking her out."

"Oh don't be ridiculous Ron. I haven't been _panicking_. I'm only sure my Ancient Runes grade is abysmal. The Irish druid passage…I swear classical literature is easy but the druids have gotten me every time. And then there was the Transfiguration exam, I'm sure I - "

"Hermione if you don't shut up and open your envelope - " Ron rolled his eyes.

"You'll do what little brother?" Fred interrupted.

"Yeah that sounded like a threat there. You should be afraid 'Mione." George gave his brother a high-five as Ron rolled his eyes and looked over his marks.

"Not bad," he sighed. "Seven OWLs. No Outstanding's and I failed Divination and History of Magic, but I mean, who didn't right?"

Molly grabbed the paper from his hands and nodded slowly, "Good job Ronald. Although really, History of Magic." Despite the slight scolding, the pride – and relief – in her voice were obvious. She gave him a hug as she handed back the letter.

"Same here, seven" Harry said, as he looked at his marks.

Ron leaned over, "An Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts, _nice_. And I mean, well-deserved of course."

Harry's stomach had fallen somewhat, "Not good enough to meet Snape's expectations for Potions though."

Ron shrugged, "Who cares? We're finally rid of the git."

"You need Potions to be considered for an Auror job though," Harry pointed out.

"Please. The Ministry gave you that Internship anyway right? And Hermione just go ahead an _open your damn letter_."

As the others were talking, Hermione had been staring intensely at the front of her sealed envelope.

"Your marks aren't hidden in the cursive letters of your name Hermione," Fred pointed out.

George laughed, "Much too clever for the Ministry."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Oh really guys. And stop _staring_ at me." Taking a deep breath, she quickly ripped the envelope open. Her eyes scanned the letter, and after a few moments she let out a sigh of relief, "Eleven."

"All Outstanding's I assume," Ron said drily.

"_NO_," Hermione protested. "I got an E in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

George gasped, "AN E! Oh Merlin…"

"Hermione your future's over."

"Yeah you've dropped below Percy's scores now."

"That's low dear…"

"They're going to rescind your internship when they find out."

Fred caught a glimpse of the twitch on Mrs. Weasley's face at the mention of Percy's name and didn't reply to his brother.

Harry noticed it too, quickly turning to Hermione and asking, "You have an internship too?"

She nodded, "The Carmenta Children's Organization. It's a social group. It advocates for facilitates that work with children. Fundraising, promotion…the like."

"There aren't any house-elf organizations," Ron supplied, obviously finding Hermione's penchant for social work a little amusing and not noticing her offended expression. "I'm at St. Mungo's," he offered.

"I – I didn't even know these types of internships even existed." Harry smiled as Molly filled his plate with a large piece of cheese soufflé.

Tonks laughed, "Not everyone does them. I skipped mine. Spent the summer playing music, working out, and getting into trouble with friends."

"We didn't do them either," Fred pointed out.

"Nope," George shook his head. "Told mum we'd work to get our grades up. Catch up with everything for our NEWTs."

"Which of course you didn't do," Molly interjected.

"Of course not," Fred said proudly.

"Spent the year working on inventions."

"Paid off too. Business is _booming_."

Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing at the mixed expression of disapproval and pride on Molly Weasley's face.

"Still," Hermione insisted, "Plenty of people _do_ internships."

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "P – Percy, Bill, Charlie…You see what side of the family you've grouped into Ron."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Thanks. The family's really has been so supportive. Ginny's _extremely_ amused. She says I have no natural capacity for healing."

"Don't know where she'd have gotten that," George muttered to Harry and Hermione's amusement.

"Where is Ginny anyway?" Harry asked.

"She's staying with Auntie Muriel until the end of next week," Ron supplied. "She wrote to us at the beginning of the summer, begging for a relative to visit."

"Of course she did," Molly said. "Poor woman, living all by herself in times like these. But then she doesn't want to leave her house either, so what else could we do?"

"I kind of envy Ginny," Ron muttered quietly. "She got to get out of the house. It's downright oppressive here sometimes. Not surprise Sirius was going ma…"

His voice drifted off as he realized what he was saying and noticed Hermione's dark look.

"Of course that's partially why the Order got internships," Hermione provided quickly.

"Yeah they thought we should have a break from this all," Ron pointed out.

"A bit of normalcy."

Harry gave a forced smile at his friends' attempt to overlook the reference of Sirius' name, "It's alright guys. I'm fine."

* * *

Dumbledore stared at the back of the heavy oak door long after Harry had swung it closed behind him. The twinkle was gone from his eyes. He sighed heavily and began shifting through the papers that were stacked neatly on the side of the desk. Halfway through the column of parchment, he found what he was looking for: a small notepad from his student days. The pieces of bound and straightened parchment – once perfectly clean and aligned for the compulsive academic note-taking of his youth – were worn and frayed after all these years; in fact, they hadn't seen an actual classroom since Dumbledore's final year as a student at Hogwarts. He had since been using it for far more critical purposes.

Sighing again, he picked up a quill and began writing on the top sheet in his customary neat, curved handwriting: _It will take longer than I expected for him to accept everything._

He paused as the ink dried and suddenly sank through the paper, all traces of it disappearing from sight. For two minutes, Dumbledore stared at the once-again empty parchment with the same, unchanging expression of solemn equilibrium on his face. He picked up the quill to write again, but at that instant words in dark ink finally rose up from the parchment's surface, the letters almost identical to Dumbledore', as clean and shaped but thinner, sharper, and more hurried:

_I'm fascinated. And busy. _

Dumbledore sighed again at the sarcasm and replied:

_He's in the same situation you were_.

This time the reply came immediately:

_Somehow I'm not empathizing. _

Dumbledore ignored the comment. _You know very well it would help him to hear from someone else who shares his burden._

_I doubt you want Potter to hear what I have to say. _

_Of course I do. You're the only one alive with a similar destiny_.

_And I think that destiny's bullshit. _

_You cou_ – But he didn't finish writing before ink rose up from the parchment to replace his words:

_What do you want Dumbledore?_

_What do you mean?_

_You know that I don't give a damn whether or not Potter's back with the Order. You know there was never a question of his not being safe anyway. You know I neither will nor should let him know what my thoughts on fate are. There's no other reason you could be in contact with me, now of all times. What do you want? _

Dumbledore hesitated before replying: _I couldn't tell you before, but I know where one of the pieces is. We can prove our theory about Voldemort. Maybe start destroying him. _There was no response, so he continued: _I'm asking you to come with me_.

A reply came before he had even finished writing: _No_.

_This time I'm not asking for a lesson. I'm asking for a favor from a friend. Just one weekend._

_I think 'friendship' is hardly the word to describe our relationship. And I told you, this summer's favor is certainly the last I'm doing. I'm out Dumbledore. For good._

Dumbledore shook his head slowly but waited. Moments passed before he received an additional response: _Take Potter_.

_Don't be smug, you know he's not ready_.

_Well that's not my fault now is it?_

_I know you never appr –_

_The answer's no Dumbledore. I've made my choice._

It took a while for Dumbledore to think about and finish writing his next words: _And if I can't do it without you? _

_You're the greatest wizard of your age; you'll survive. _

Dumbledore didn't even consider responding. He knew whom he was speaking with well enough to know the conversation was over. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back against the chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to keep himself from wondering how things had reached that point.

* * *

"How wonderful. They're calling Potter 'The Chosen One' now." Rolling his eyes, Blaise Zabini threw the latest copy of the Daily Prophet onto the coffee table next to him and leaned back in the brown leather armchair.

"What was that?" replied a drawling and distracted voice from the adjacent room.

"I said: 'They're calling Potter The Chosen One now." Blaise got up, walked across the room to the open door, and leaned against the frame. "Are you finished?"

Draco Malfoy looked up from behind his desk and sniggered, "What? You didn't know he was our savior from the forces of _doom_? And no."

"We're going to miss the train…"

Draco rolled his eyes and looked down again to write, "No we won't."

Blaise shook his head and started walking around the room. Malfoy's personal study consisted of one large, Gothic room filled with tall bookshelves and leather furniture and another smaller, circular room surrounded by windows that looked out over part of the property grounds. It was one of the best views in all of Malfoy Manor. "Are you sure you shouldn't hire someone for this work?"

"Hire someone to manage the family investments? Don't be ridiculous. Besides," Draco paused momentarily to shuffle a few papers, "it's not a considerable time commitment. Other people do the work. I approve, review, and criticize. Don't need anything more than sound financial sense. It's almost academic."

Blaise snorted, "Draco _volunteering_ to take on a responsibility? Never thought I'd live to see it." He smirked as he imagined, quite correctly in fact, the annoyed look Draco was shooting him. "I figure, though, that you're a little off with your time estimates. Considering we're going to be _late_."

Draco replied in a slightly agitated voice, "Subtle hint, congratulations. And for your information, I'd already be done if I hadn't gone to the Ministry."

Blaise smiled widely and turned around, "Oh _yeah_. You got your security clearance today. How was dear old Dumbledore?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "You know, the usual. I think he was trying to look into my soul."

"Certainly a task I wouldn't wish on anyone."

Draco looked up at him, "You're on a roll today aren't you?"

"I'll stop when we finally leave," Blaise smirked. Considering Malfoy's general propensity for sarcasm and insults, Blaise thoroughly enjoyed any opportunity to get under his skin. There were benefits to be the best friend.

"Well perfect timing." Draco slammed his quill down, "Come on, the house-elves brought everything downstairs."

"Finally!" Blaise pumped his fist in mock success, then rolled his eyes and shook his head impatiently as Draco stuffed a few papers into a leather briefcase and locked the door both to the windowed desk room and to the larger study.

The two walked out of the study, through two of the sitting rooms that made up Draco's personal suite, past the indoor fountain in the center of the suite's small foyer, and into the large baroque hallway that ran through the heart of Malfoy Manor's west wing.

"I can't believe you're coming with me," Blaise snorted.

Draco smirked, "I know, it's difficult to admit you need a babysitter."

"Oh shut it."

"I mean," Draco continued, "international travel is _exceedingly_ dangerous. You could get in over you head on the – what is it? – day and a half long journey to Milan."

Blaise rolled his eyes, "Please. The odds of anything happening to me are slim to none and you know it. My mother just can't risk being associated with another family murder. Although why she thinks _you_ would be able to help is beyond me."

"Natural charm clearly."

Blaise snorted in reply. The two turned a corner and he headed toward the small door which he knew from years of visiting led to a guest suite and small, spiral staircase that served as a shortcut to the floor below.

Draco furrowed his brow, "Don't go that way."

Blaise turned and raised an eyebrow, but backed off when he saw the look on Draco's face. They walked on and Blaise whispered, "Is _he_…?"

"No. Been gone for about a week. I didn't ask where."

"Laying low?"

"Obviously. It's not as if our family's in favor at the moment."

"Botched Ministry job still a touchy subject?"

"That's putting it lightly."

"Ah. I assume then that's why you're spending the summer in London."

Draco shrugged, "It's a good opportunity."

"A good opportunity you don't _need_. Your last name is worth more than any internship." Blaise chuckled, "You tend to point out that fact fairly often."

"Nothing wrong with padding your resume," Draco objected. "Or sucking up to the Ministry."

"Or getting out of the line of fire."

Draco smirked as they began walking down the giant marble stairway at the intersection of Malfoy Manor's wings. "What can I say, I have an acute sense of self preservation."

"And an acute sense of generally avoiding commitment," Blaise mumbled.

Draco stopped and shot him an angry look, "Your point Zabini?"

Blaise raised his hands defensively, "None, none whatsoe – "

"Draco!" a high voice sounded from nearby. "Is that you? You boys are going to be late."

Draco rolled his eyes, "_Coming_!" He and Blaise walked past a number of the large agarwood doors that led to some of Malfoy Manor's largest public rooms – the reception hall, the huge guest parlor, the ballroom – and entered a small, private sitting room off the side of the east wing. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting in a French embroidered armchair, fanning herself furiously and sipping a cup of tea while trying to look less anxious and sleep deprived than she'd been for weeks. Next to her was a tall woman in her mid-40s with soft coffee-colored skin, long black hair, voluptuous lips, and well-defined cheekbones. She was lounging casually on a small couch, running her finger slowly around the rim of her cup without a seeming care. Even now it wasn't difficult to see how Faizah Zabini had seduced seven of the wealthiest wizards in Europe, or how she'd managed to kill the lot.

"We won't be late mother. We're just leaving." Draco leaned over and kissed Narcissa on the cheek, then kissed the top Ms. Zabini's hand.

"_Draco_," Faizah exclaimed in a melodious voice. "How you've _grown_…You must be taller than Blaisey by now."

Blaise rolled his eyes as Draco smiled, "Precisely ¾ of an inch taller Ms. Zabini."

Faizah shook her head, "Really Narcissa, I can't believe you're letting him travel back _alone_."

"It's not exactly going to be a difficult achievement," Blaise snapped, interrupting Narcissa's sigh.

His mother raised both eyebrows critically, "Don't be silly dear. If one of your friends hadn't volunteered to come with you, I would have hired someone. Petty thieves and murderers are running rampant nowadays and no one's doing a thing about it either. This family doesn't need any more tragedies."

Draco shot his friend a sideways glance, and he instantly noticed Blaise suck his cheeks in angrily. It made him look very much like his mother, which was ironic considering he only sucked his cheeks in when he was angry and his mother made him angrier than anyone.

"So basically," Draco interceded jokingly before Blaise became tempted to say something that would make them all uncomfortable, "you're lucky to be stuck with me."

Blaise sighed in resignation and dramatically threw an arm around Draco's shoulder, "Always have been my friend. Always have been."

* * *

Before Voldemort first rose to power, it had been easy to travel across Europe. Most wizards, even those with criminal records, could apparate from nation to nation with few restrictions, and what regulations did exist could be overcome by Portkeys strategically placed at secure checkpoints. In the panic of the 1970s, most ease of travel was revoked. Ministries across Europe turned paranoid, and only wizards with notable reputations, or notable fortunes, could cross borders without trouble. At the height of Voldemort's power British wizards couldn't even apply to enter most other European nations. The Department of International Magical Cooperation had devoted numerous resources over the past fifteen years to promote free borders, but Voldemort's recent and very public resurgence at the Ministry had quickly eroded any progress.

With international tensions high and Lucius Malfoy's incarceration making it impossible for the family to exact favors from any government contacts, the easiest way for two wealthy, young wizards to travel to Italy was on the high-speed train, across the English Channel, through Belgium, France, and across northern Italy. It was surprisingly a better journey than Draco and Blaise had expected. They spent over half the trip flirting heavily with a group of four French teenagers, and when these got off near Lyon passed the rest of the time in a passionate discussion about what it meant to be a Death Eater and what it took to earn a Dark Mark. When they finally arrived in Milan, it was a dark Saturday evening and mist was beginning to cover the platform.

"When's your train back?" Blaise asked as he found his luggage.

"An hour," Draco replied distractedly as he looked around.

"Damn. You're going straight to the Ministry when you get back aren't you?"

"Oh I'll have some time to get dressed."

"Which for you of course is all that matters."

Draco rolled his eyes and didn't bother retorting. "I should probably grab something to eat though, find the platform for my next train…You can make it the next few yards without me can't you?"

Blaise laughed, "I think my mother would be personally offended at your negligence. Besides, you have plenty of time. At least greet my uncle; the man loves you."

Draco grunted in reply. The two walked in silence past the tall iron railings that held up the rounded, glass canopy of the Milan station. Blaise craned his neck from side to side, trying to look over the heads of the numerous passangers bustling through the mist. "There we go," he finally whispered. He pushed ahead of Draco and walked quickly toward a tall, older man standing aloofly underneath one of the platform lights.

Francesco Zabini was the type of man whose very presence commanded unquestionable respect. He had two shiny, black, piercing eyes that stared coldly and resolutely in front of him. Blaise had the same eyes. The black velvet cloak that fell smoothly off his shoulders blended into the night, such that all that stood out from his straight back, mess of dark, curly hair, and full, well-trimmed goatee were two expressive lips and those shining, knowing eyes. He smiled thinly as his nephew approached and shook his hand.

"A good trip?" Francesco Zabini asked coolly.

"As good as could be expected sir," Blaise said respectfully. "You remember Draco Malfoy?"

The corner of Francesco Zabini's mouth turned up ever so slightly as he reached out to shake Draco's outstretched hand.

"Buona sera signore," Draco said. "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine Mr. Malfoy," Francesco replied smoothly in a thick Italian accent. He stared closely at Draco as he slowly shook the boy's hand, making a point not to break eye contact. Draco seemed to swallow nervously under the direct gaze, but the polite smile didn't leave his face. He turned to Blaise when the handshake broke off, ignoring the fact that Francesco Zabini was still looking at him.

"I really should find my next train. Have a good summer Blaise. Come back with a bloody load of useful visions."

Blaise rolled his eyes, "I'll do my best. You just try to stay out of trouble."

"Trouble? Now that certainly doesn't sound like me," Draco laughed. He patted Blaise on the arm, nodded respectfully to his uncle, and walked away.

Blaise stood quietly by his uncle's side as the older man stared after Draco. When a minute had passed, he cleared his throat, "You do that very often sir."

Francesco finally turned to look at his nephew, "Excuse me?"

"Every time you see him…you give him an…exceptionally concentrated look."

Francesco smiled thinly, "He's a special boy."

"He's a Malfoy?" Blaise furrowed his brows. He knew his uncle too well to expect that any of his more cryptic statements would be explained unless Blaise saw the explanation first.

Francesco turned to walk out the station. He shook his head slowly, "No. Lucius is a Malfoy. Abraxas was a Malfoy. Lazarius was a Malfoy. No…no this boy is…un giovane molto speciale."

Blaise gave a frustrated sighed, "I don't suppose you'll tell me how sir."

Francesco grabbed his nephew's shoulder firmly. He almost smiled, "When you finally do see it, you'll understand."

* * *

Well? PLEASE review and let me know what you think. Any initial impressions, suggestions, etc. would be much appreciated! And of course the more you review, the faster I'll put up the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 1: Unpleasant Discoveries

**CHAPTER ONE: A SERIES OF UNPLEASANT DISCOVERIES**

"They're insane," Harry exclaimed, as he and Tonks entered the Ministry lift.

She smiled, "I know right? About three years ago Fudge pushed through a law that let them come into that part of the Atrium and since then it's been chaotic anytime there's a _chance_ of a story. They take a million pictures, thrust the microphone in your bloody face…it makes that Skeeter womanlook decent."

It was the first day of his internship, and Tonks had volunteered to guide him through the Ministry's gilded fireplace entrances; past the hounds of press journalists that were sitting in the Atrium waiting for the latest news break; beyond wand registration, the new double security checkpoints the Ministry had instituted, and the hundreds of admiring and suspicious stares; and down to the offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Harry grunted. He could already see the following day's headline: "Chosen One Harry Potter Cooperating with Ministry of Magic's Law Enforcement Efforts."

Getting off the lift, Tonks turned left and Harry followed her down a dark hallway he hadn't noticed when he was last on that floor. There were equally spaced doors on both sides of the hall, some of them with labels: "Employee Services," "Records 1800-1900," "Reference"…

Harry stopped as something to the left caught his eye. Between two doors more widely spaced than the rest was a life-size painting of a tall man dressed in a long, black robes embroidered with gold thread and leaning over a tall black cane. The age and facial details may have been different, but there was no mistaking that white-blond hair, pointed face, and icy grey eyes. He turned to Tonks, who had stopped in front of him. "Is that…?"

"Lazarius Malfoy," she nodded. "The Fourth. The family gets mad if you don't add 'the fourth.'"

Harry rolled his eyes and they continued walking. "They would. Why is his portrait here?"

Tonks sighed, "Lazarius Malfoy _the fourth_ was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for over sixty years. He oversaw the building and renovation of this entire floor, revamped the Auror and Hit Wizard program, strengthened relations with the Department of Mysteries, instituted regulations to prevent corruption amongst the Wizengamot…you name it, he probably had a hand in it. He's basically a department legend."

Harry grimaced, "Doesn't sound like the Malfoys we know."

"Shame isn't it?" Tonks laughed a little but slowed down, and Harry noticed a troubled expression briefly cross her face. It was particularly noticeable on her now somewhat gaunter features. "About that…" she said.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "About what?" he asked slowly.

She sighed. "So…Dumbledore didn't want us to tell you," she began awkwardly, "because he thought that you'd be furious and try to refuse working here or that you wouldn't relax at all this past weekend or tha - "

"Tonks," Harry interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

She rolled her eyes, "The Ministry accepts four to five interns in Magical Law Enforcement. Two men and two women this year. The other guy – "

"…is Malfoy?" Harry completed angrily, as he saw where she was going.

Tonks nodded awkwardly.

Harry stopped short, "How is the Ministry letting the _son of a convicted Death Eater_ work for them?"

"Not convicted yet," Tonks noted. "But that's what I asked. Amelia Bones said the applications are anonymous. He was extremely qualified."  
"Qualified? Have you _met_ the guy?"

"They picked him before they knew who he was."

"Of course, and they couldn't _not_ pick him," Harry rolled his eyes.

"She talked with all the higher-ups…they decided 'the son shouldn't have to pay for the crimes of his father,'" Tonks replied, making air quotes with her fingers around the phrase Bones had used.

Harry's mouth dropped open, "Are you _actually _serious? The so-called 'higher-ups' are his family's friends!"

"Dumbledore vouched for him Harry," Tonks sighed, "Personally questioned him on Friday."

"On Friday?" Harry paused. "That's whose security clearance he was fixing before he came to pick me up from the Dursleys? Malfoy's?"

Harry felt a sudden surge of anger as Tonks slowly nodded. After everything Dumbledore had said about being open with Harry and letting him know the truth, the headmaster still didn't seem to have a problem with misleading him and hiding important details.

"Harry," Tonks pleaded. "Please at least talk it out with Kingsley." By the tone in her voice, it was obvious she had neither the desire nor the energy to fight with Harry or to defend someone she knew she wouldn't be fond of herself. As Harry looked at her, he made a mental note to ask Ron and Hermione if they knew whether she was alright.

"Fine," he sighed. "Fine. Let's – let's just go."

Tonks smiled and patted him on the shoulder. The two walked further down the hall in silence – Harry promising himself that unless absolutely necessary he would ignore Malfoy whenever possible – until Tonks finally lead him through a door at the end of the hallway, down a smaller corridor, and into a tiny classroom-size presentation room.

Kingsley was standing behind a podium at the front of the room, poorly disguising an expression that intimated he had much more important things on his mind than welcoming a group of four teenagers for a five week summer internship.

"Harry!" Susan Bones waved at him from the front row. He sat down next to her and smiled. At Susan's right was a tall, curvaceous witch with long straight black hair who smiled politely toward him. Much to the dismay of Harry's slim, instantaneously arising hopes that Malfoy had suffered some horrible accident on his way to the Ministry, Draco was slumped over in a chair at the far end of the row. Their eyes met momentarily, and Draco sniggered and shook his head briefly before shifting lower in his chair and looking back at Kingsley.

Remembering that he'd made himself a promise and that he should wait at least a full day to break it, Harry rolled his eyes and didn't react.

"My aunt asked me to apologize to you Harry," Susan whispered. "For, you know…" She nodded her head toward Malfoy.

Harry smiled lightly; if anything, Susan was at least being earnest.

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Good morning and welcome," he began in his deep, steady voice, "The four of you sitting before me are the best and brightest of a pool of over five hundred highly qualified applicants." Harry restrained a laugh as he imagined how Kingsley probably felt about having to deliver this contrived official Ministry speech. "Over the next five weeks, you shall become thoroughly acquainted with the magical laws of this nation, the procedures of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the physical requirements of such a demanding occupation, the real and persistent dangers currently being posed to the rights and liberties of the peoples of England, and the ways in which law enforcement is fighting the present war. You shall leave this internship with greater knowledge, greater confidence and of course with the preparation and background appropriate for entering the law enforcement profession upon your finishing school. Any questions?"

Harry smiled. A few seats down, Malfoy was doing his best to bite his tongue.

Kingsley clapped his hands together, "Well, now that the required Ministry announcement has been read: a genuine welcome. I, and the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement, am very glad to have you here. I've personally read your application files and you are certainly the kinds of individuals the Ministry of Magic needs at a time like this: confident, intelligent, accomplished…But before I go further and explain the day's schedule and your general responsibilities, I've also been told to ask for general introductions. Your name and something interesting about you." He nodded toward Harry.

"Um – hi," Harry waved awkwardly. "I'm Harry Potter and – and –"

"You're the Boy Who Lived," the tall, black-haired witch whispered in amazement. "You saw You-Know-Who return?"

Draco snorted.

"Um, right," Harry nodded. "Yeah. That's sort of…interesting."

Susan smiled and to Harry's relief spared him further awkwardness. "Hey everyone," she said in a very excited voice. "I'm Susan Bones. My aunt is Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Luciana Bianchi," the black-haired woman said. "I'm from Napoli. And I've actually already graduated from school."

Malfoy smirked. "Sei andato a Accademia?" he asked in a low voice and prim Italian accent.

"Certo!" Luciana replied, a huge smile appearing on her face at meeting someone who spoke her language.

"Ho una coppia di lontani parenti che sono andati lì. Hanno parlato molto bene della scuola."

"Your name and a fact," Kingsley interrupted, not even trying to disguise his impatience. "Preferably in English."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, "Draco Malfoy. Hmm…this is difficult; there are so many interesting things about me."

Harry groaned. Luciana giggled.

"I've got it. How about this? Over half of my direct relatives are either wanted by the Ministry or _slanderously_ in government custody."

"Fascinating," Harry spat, unable to restrain himself any longer. "Do tell us how Bellatrix is?"

Malfoy shrugged. "No idea," he said casually. "Haven't met her. It's a pity, I've been told I really am my aunt's nephew."

Kingsley cleared his throat loudly before Harry could retort. "Kingsley Shacklebolt," he interrupted loudly. "Auror. Formerly in charge of the search for Azkaban escapee Sirius Black. Current head of this program and of security for the Muggle Prime Minister."

"Because it's Major or Blair or whoever that needs our protection," Malfoy drawled quietly.

"I'm surprised you know their names," Harry muttered under his breath.

Kingsley continued to ignore them both. "Today will be a very organizational day," he continued loudly. "And first you'll learn to file your case reports. Any questions at _this_ point?"

There were none. Harry was looking very frustrated, Malfoy was smugly leaning back in his chair, Susan was smiling awkwardly, and Luciana seemed incredibly confused.

"Very well," Kingsley said with strain in his voice. "Case reports." He flicked his wand and a large, broken parchment projector screen rose from behind the podium. In the back, Tonks fumbled with an even older projector. "Sorry," she muttered, as she had to reach down quickly to keep from dropping the box to the floor. "My bad."

It took about five minutes for Tonks and another tall, skinny male wizard in the back to make the case report form project at an adequate size and resolution at the front of the room. Harry stared stonily at Malfoy throughout, prepared to jump on him if he even dared to try mocking Tonks. Fortunately, Draco resigned himself to burrowing further in his seat and contorting his face in disgust.

It took about half an hour after that for Kingsley to explain the complicated Ministry case report form. For every incident, the form had to be filled out with the name and relevant biographical information of suspects, victims, and witnesses; details of time, setting, and crime; and, most time consuming, the relevant wizarding statues that applied with full description and proper citation. The forms also had to be matched with witnessed statements and other components of the case file. It was detailed, meticulous record keeping, and Harry could imagine why none of the real Aurors had any interest in doing the work themselves. It would quite understandably be more convenient for them to make brief notes and hand them off to the interns to fill out the form and collect other file components, although Harry couldn't help thinking that Hermione would be far more suited to the stream of paperwork he was now expecting than he would ever be.

After emphasizing yet again that each legal statue had to be cited in the specific order of number, subset, name, subset name, date of establishment, and overseeing minister and then written out in full and that each form should be completed quickly after request, Kingsley clapped his hands. "Now let me take you to where you'll be working this summer. I shall point out a few important locations along the way and give you a few practice forms to begin with. You can settle in, go to lunch, so on and so forth. Physicals will be later this afternoon."

"Well that was riveting," Draco muttered, as they headed out into the hallway.

"Drop it Malfoy," Harry snapped. "You don't own the Ministry. Neither does _daddy_."

Draco snorted, "And you're here on academic achievement Potter? I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm trying out this new thing where I don't lie as often."

"Good luck with that. Maybe you'll break the Slytherin five minute record."

Luciana fell behind them alongside Susan. "They have history?" she asked in a thick Italian accent.

Susan whispered furiously, "They've very publicly _hated_ each other since our first day at Hogwarts. Sort of like school rivals. Not to mention the fact that almost everyone in Malfoy's family is a Death Eater. I suggest you stay out of it. I mean, I'm planning to at least."

"Everyone paying attention?" Kingsley asked loudly. "You're going to need to know where my office is."

Harry groaned and quickly walked in front of Malfoy. He was struggling to contain his anger. Every time he looked at Draco, all he could see was Lucius with his hand extended for the prophecy or that crazed looked in Bellatrix's eyes. Even his smirk reminded Harry of Bellatrix. He had a nagging desire to punch it off Malfoy's smug face.

Once Kingsley had shown them his own office, the set of record rooms, the research areas, and the long hallway that led to the majority of the basic employee offices, he stopped outside a door close to the lift and pointed them through it. They entered a fairly large double room, with two pairs of desks on each side separated by a sliding glass door engraved with the Ministry emblem. Short bookcases filled with large, leather bound books were placed at intervals alongside the walls.

"Wow, this is really nice!" Susan exclaimed. "Especially for interns."

"It's not an intern room," Kingsley explained with a bitter smile. "The wizards who used to work here died two weeks ago."

Harry turned to him. "Death Eaters?" he asked coldly.

"Trying to protect a community of Muggles in Surrey," Kingsley supplied quietly.

Harry shook his head and turned to grab a desk at the far corner, but to his dismay Susan and Luciana had hurried to immediately take the two on the far side of the glass door.

"Get to work right next to me," Malfoy smirked, as he sat down at the desk opposite the door. "Lucky you Potter."

Harry shot Kingsley an angry and exasperated look.

"Later," the Auror mouthed, as he handed everyone stacks of case report forms. "I'll see all of you this afternoon."

Harry sighed again and sat down at the last remaining desk. He looked around the room and wondered if there was a way to angle his seat so that he didn't have to stare at Malfoy's smug face all day. He supposed he could always turn the desk and chair around to face the door, but with Malfoy's maturity he'd have little balls of paper thrown at his back every ten minutes, under the best of circumstances. Besides, he didn't want to give Malfoy the satisfaction.

Across from him, Draco momentarily had seemed to lose interest in mockery. He had taken a large stack of papers out of his briefcase, stuck both his feet on the desk, and was reading something carefully.

Beyond the glass separating door, the girls were talking, but Harry felt too frustrated to try joining in. He had nothing to arrange on his desk either, so in exasperation he picked up one of the sample case reports that Kingsley had passed out and tried to look over it, barely focusing on the words and succeeding only in thinking about how he would tell Kingsley, Tonks, and eventually Dumbledore that he had no interest in coming back and if he would ever be able to demand the truth from Dumbledore and actually receive it.

Ten or so minutes had passed and Harry was debating asking Susan where the cafeteria was when the door to their rooms opened. Harry looked up, expecting to see Kingsley or perhaps Tonks. Instead, a dirty-blonde somewhat short and weedy-looking boy in a light grey, pinstripe suit and pink tie walked into the room. Harry recognized him as Theodore Nott. He shot Harry a contemptuous look and walked toward Malfoy. "Hey," he muttered, knocking on his desk.

Draco looked up from the piece of parchment and smirked, "_Theodore._ Wonderful. How's International Magical Cooperation treating you?"

"So far? Boring. Although I'm a little surprised you're not working there yourself. You've always struck me like somewhat of a diplomat." He shrugged, "Not to mention you speak more languages than I do."

"I speak eight more languages than you do and all better than you do," Draco said cooly. "But deep inside I have a passion for law enforcement. Great-grandfather's blood and all."

Nott snorted, both used to and unimpressed by Malfoy's casual gloating.

"Plus," Draco continued. "We have better offices."

"I'm sure, but you have far worse company." He nodded toward Harry with little subtlety and Draco shrugged in agreement.

"Also," Nott whispered, "Is that Susan Bones?"

"Indeed," Malfoy mouthed.

"Nepotism is beautiful isn't it?"

"A personal favorite of mine."

Nott sniggered. "One second, I have something for you." He pulled a ticket from his pocket and handed it to Draco. "You owe me 250 galleons."

"Damn. No subtlety in the price hike?"

"It's not like people are flocking to the ballet right now Draco."

"Their problem, not mine." Malfoy sniggered, "Why are we going to this show again?"

"Because it's the opening night of a fairly prestigious Pre-Professional summer production," Nott sighed, "And Astoria has the principal role in _Morgana_. She's apparently incredible."

"So I've heard" Draco nodded. "Damn, I suppose I have to stop thinking of her as Daphne's little sister."

"I mean, she _is_ two years younger than us."

"One. She came in a year late remember?"

Nott grunted in acknowledgment.

"We should buy her something," Draco said after a bit.

"I know, but I though I would leave that up to you," Nott said. "You're better at propriety. And at sucking up." He motioned around him as if to emphasize the point.

Malfoy ignored the jab, "Chocolates?"

Nott snorted, "Have you _looked at_ Astoria? And can we talk about this over food, I'm starving?"

"Both points taken," Malfoy replied as he got up. "Flowers then. White roses? We'll save the chocolates for Mrs. Greengrass."

"I suppose." He laughed, "Unless you can bring Blaise back from Italy for Mrs. Greengrass. That would be her dream present."

"Unlikely," Malfoy rolled his eyes.

Nott dropped his voice, "Is Blaise even seriously interested in Daphne?"

"I don't think so. Not any more than I'm interested in Pansy at least." As he led Nott out of the room, Draco bumped Harry's desk hard enough for the few papers on the corner to fall off. "Oops."

Nott sniggered and followed Malfoy out, "So by that logic, to him she's a somewhat incestuous younger sister?"

"Touché."

As the door shut behind them, Harry groaned and slowly laid his head on the desk.

Susan got up and opened the glass doorway even more widely. "Were they at least talking about something interesting?" she asked sympathetically.

Harry shook his head slowly, "I was trying to ignore them."

As Susan walked over to help Harry clean things up, Luciana walked to the door. "I don't understand," she began. "What's wrong with them?"

"Malfoy's a jerk," Harry spat. "An insensitive, cruel, bigoted, _evil_ human being. And so are all his friends."

Susan's stomach growled awkwardly. "Anyone else mind going to lunch?" she interrupted.

Harry grunted in agreement, but as the three of them walked down the hall and toward the elevators, he couldn't keep himself from venting, "Not to mention he's the most arrogant person I've ever met. And everyone in Slytherin just _eats it up_. I didn't even know those two were _friends_. Nott always seemed like a loner or something. I figured there had to be at least _one_ Slytherin who wasn't part of Malfoy's gang."

"Oh he and Malfoy aren't friends," Susan supplied. At Harry's questioning glance she added quickly, "It was a _huge_ rumor like last year. Apparently Warrington told Adrian Pucey who told Jason Samuels who told Grant Page who told Fawcett who told Michael Corner who told Ernie MacMillan who told like all of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Wow," Luciana whispered.

Susan blushed a little, "What? I like gossip. And everyone was sharing Death Eater stories Harry, even those who didn't believe you."

Harry shook his head, "What were they saying?"

"_Apparently_," Susan began, the excitement returning to her voice, "Nott _hates_ Malfoy. Something to do with his mother's death."

"What?"

"_Yeah_, so the version I heard was that when, well, when _You-Know-Who_ was in power the first time, Lucius Malfoy screwed Nott's father over to take the blame for some failed Death Eater mission and You-Know-Who believed him." Her voice lowered, "He killed Nott's mother in front of both him and his father."

"So that's why he can see thestrals…" Harry muttered after a while.

"Well those two seemed perfectly friendly to me," Luciana added awkwardly. She seemed uncomfortable to be thrust in the center of unfamiliar Hogwarts rivalries.

Susan shrugged, "Maybe they're bonding? Both their fathers are in prison now." She nodded toward Luciana to explain, "Death Eaters."

"Slytherins, bonding?" Harry snorted. "More likely one of them has something the other wants."

"Goodness," Luciana said. "They can't be that hateful. I mean, they're still kids…"

"They're kids of Death Eaters," Harry corrected angrily as the three walked into a large, dark marble cafeteria with round tables.

Luciana looked taken aback. Harry began to apologize at his abrupt manner, but he was interrupted by a loud voice coming from their left.

"Harry!" Seamus Finnigan ran over to them. "Blimey Harry, good to see you." He nodded toward Susan and shook Luciana's hand. "All of you are Law Enforcement?"

Susan nodded, "You?"

"Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Going to be _hilarious_. Everyone's selling these insane anti-Death Eater charms nowadays, none of which work of course."

Harry shook his head as they sat down and filled plates and goblets appeared on the blackwood tables in front of them. The standard, free Ministry meal Susan explained, although they were free to pay for something more or different if they wanted.

"Also, have you guys seen…" Seamus nodded toward the far end of the cafeteria, where Malfoy was leaning over and vigorously shaking the hand of an older Ministry wizard. "Disgusting ain't he. I wonder how much it cost to _fit_ that suit."

Harry groaned, "I promised myself I'd ignore him. Didn't last an hour."

"He's with us," Susan explained to Seamus.

"_Law Enforcement_? Blimey, and his father in Azkaban and all?"

"It's ridiculous," Harry muttered.

Seamus either didn't notice Harry's reluctance at the subject of conversation or ignored it. "What the hell Susan?"

She shrugged, "Why are you blaming me?"

"Not blaming, _asking_."

"Why are you _asking_ me then?"

"Come on, your aunt didn't let you see _any_ of the application files? She picks Law Enforcement doesn't she?"

There was an excited note in his voice. Despite his bad mood, Harry smiled; Seamus knew how to get Susan to talk.

"Well…" she began, "I'm not supposed to say anything."

"It's not like we're going to tell, right Harry?"

Harry sighed, reluctant to keep talking about Malfoy but against his better judgment still curious, "Right."

Susan sighed and leaned closed toward them. "Fine," she admitted. "I saw his file."

"And…?" Seamus egged her on.

"It was his OWL scores," Susan whispered. "He got _eleven._"

"_Fuck_," Seamus spat.

Harry lowered his fork, "You're kidding? That's how many Hermione got."

She shrugged, "Ten Os and an E. Report in the file was an original, I asked my aunt. I told her to double check too since it's not like Malfoy's brilliant in class or anything. His family probably tried fixing it."

"Yeah mostly he just makes snide remarks to Crabbe and Goyle and talks about his father," Seamus muttered. "What was the E in?"

"Charms I think?"

Harry laughed bitterly. "S – sorry," he said, a large smile on his face. "I think – I think I may have had something to do with that. Somewhat distracted him…"

"Nice job mate," Seamus patted him on the shoulder. "But…_blimey_. We're never going to hear the end of it at school."

Harry shook the smile off his face. "That's not possible," he insisted. "I mean, he takes Divination. How do you get an O in that?"

"I bet all the Slytherins did," Susan supplied. At Harry's blank gaze, she continued, "Blaise Zabini. Tallish Slytherin guy? Milky, black-white skin? Really broad, muscular shoulders? Dark, moody look about him?"

"Yeah I know who he is," Harry snapped. "What about him?"

"He's a _seer_," Susan explained. "Like, a _real one. _His uncle manages the biggest Divination Academy in Europe. Apparently he gave all the Slytherins – and anyone else who could pay for it – personalized lessons on how to fake it for the exam."

"How did I not hear about this? Actually, how do you know _any_ of this?"

Susan shrugged, "You, Ron, and Hermione always seem to be saving the world. You guys aren't exactly in the gossip loop…no offense."

"None taken," Harry muttered unconvincingly.

"I actually tried to go to those sessions," Seamus supplied. He shrugged at Harry's sickened expression, "_What_? I could either put up with a group of bloody Slytherin assholes or actually pass my Divination exam. Couldn't pay what he wanted though. Lovely grade I got on _that one_."

"Ernie couldn't pay either," Susan added.

As the two started talking about their other classmates, their different OWL scores, and how they were spending their summers, Harry sat back silently. At the far end of the room, Malfoy was laughing loudly alongside Nott and group of older Ministry wizards that must have been friends with their fathers. He seemed very much in control. Harry wasn't sure why, but it made him uncomfortable that Malfoy had the same OWL scores as Hermione. He'd always seemed quick to talk and slow to think, and that made his threats irrelevant. But if they weren't…

* * *

"Um Kingsley," Harry asked. "Do we have to wear these every day?" They were on an intermediate floor between levels two and three of the Ministry that served as the Auror training grounds. Kingsley was taking the interns in twos to evaluate them for the physical component of their internship, which to Harry's dismay meant not only having to be paired with Draco but also wearing the official Ministry gym equipment: a pair of light, greenish-brown shorts and a bright yellow shirt with the Ministry crest on it. The overall effect was somewhere between that of puke and fluorescent bumblebee.

"You can bring your own clothes." Kingsley smiled, "In fact, I think most of the Academy trainees would prefer you did. There's a rising movement among the first and second years to get new ones."

"Who _designed_ these?" Malfoy drawled, walking out from the locker rooms toward them. With his white blonde hair and pale skin, Draco looked even worse in the outfit than Harry did.

"Don't worry, no one in your family," Kingsley said drily.

"Thank _God_," Malfoy exclaimed.

"Kingsley! Over here!" A tall, black wizard waved toward them. He wore a large smile on his face as they approached. "The guys first I see, excellent, excellent."

"Lynx," Kingsley introduced the man. "And that's Toby," he nodded toward a heavy-built redhead behind him. "You'll have them back in at most two hours of course?"

"Barring any major complications," Toby said in a thick cockney accent.

"For all we know they could both be horrible runners," Lynx said with a laugh. He cocked his head, "And by the way, Aramis was here earlier. Real angsty. He and Hector need someone to sign off on their dueling hours."

"Arctors…" Kingsley mumbled, shaking his head. He walked away as Lynx and Toby led Harry and Draco past a large dueling room where groups of wizards were practicing intensely, a mini-bouldering gym with moving handholds, a gymnastics floor filled primarily with witches working on balance and precision exercises, an indoor flying court, a large track, a pool, an area that seemed to be reserved for mixed martial arts, and rows of what seemed like Muggle treadmills and ellipticals – only the devices were powering themselves and every so often confronted the wizard with an imaginary opponent.

"Impressive isn't it?" Lynx smiled at the expression on Harry's face. "We turn boys into men here."

"And girls into women," Toby added.

"True, true," Lynx concurred. "Although putting it that way sounds a little dubious."

As Harry laughed and Malfoy groaned loudly, Lynx turned Harry with a glimmer in his eyes. "So you're the great Harry Potter…"

Harry smiled awkwardly, "I guess."

"You're like a _legend_ here. Well, I guess you're a legend everywhere. But _especially_ here. I mean, the only person who's ever survived the Killing Curse? The only person – save Dumbledore's of course – who's _consistently_ come off good against You-Know-Who? _DAMN_."

"_Chosen One_," Malfoy mockingly mouthed toward Harry so that only he would see.

Lynx was shaking his head again and his eyes fell on Draco, "And _you, _you're famous around here too. Or at least, your great-granddaddy is. You look just like him you know that? Just like all the portraits and photos. Well, you know, younger and fresher and less _stern_, but still - "

"Thank you," Malfoy interrupted quickly.

Toby came over with two clipboards. "Lynx gets excited," he explained, "and talks a lot."

"I _do_," Lynx smiled. "You know, after five years of training everyone thinks I ought to have become all tired and cynical, but I disagree."

"Five years?" Harry asked. "I thought Auror training was three?"

"It is," Lynx explained. "Toby and I are Arctors."

"Subclass of the Auror program," Toby continued. "We have the same job as regular Aurors, but we also have extended training to serve in legal roles and act as the Interrogators and primary prosecutors for major cases. In fact we run and organize most of the big cases…we go undercover too, and when any especially _distinctive_ action is required, we're the ones that get called in. In short, very specialized, slightly more legal and administrative."

"And every once in a while we students get to do fun things like this!" Lynx said brightly.

"Right," Toby continued. "So this is how this afternoon is going to work: We're going to ask you a few questions and take down some basics: you know, height, weight, fat content, etc. Then you duel us – you'll be allowed to use your wands here, _at the Ministry only,_ this summer. No fighting in the streets of course. And then we're going to get your mile time, see how long you can run in thirty minutes and do weights. At the end of it all, you'll get a smaller version of the same physical assignment log as we do, and you're going to have to do everything on it three times a week for these five weeks. Sound good?"

Harry and Draco nodded as Lynx and Toby took out their wands and tape measures sprung out from them. Toby was apparently working with Harry while Lynx was taking Malfoy, and by the slightly disappointed expression on Lynx's face, Harry had a feeling they had flipped a galleon to choose.

"Age?" Toby asked.

"15."

"16,'' Malfoy said next to him.

The Arctors recorded their heights and weights, then took out an instrument that looked a lot to Harry like the rusty vernier caliper Vernon Dursley had claimed was thrown at his car earlier that summer. As Toby and Lynx continued to ask questions and write, the tape measure and caliper floated in the air, measuring lengths and widths and grabbing chunks of their skin and muscle to measure.

"Fat content," Toby explained.

"Women must hate this," Malfoy muttered.

Lynx laughed, "We're a little more sensitive with women. But you two are big boys, right?"

"Do you play any sports?" Toby asked a little curtly.

"Quidditch," Harry said.

"Quidditch," Malfoy repeated.

"Position?"

"Seeker."

"Seeker."

Lynx eyebrows shot up. "Seeker, really?" he asked Malfoy.

"That surprising?" Draco said in annoyance.

"No, no," Lynx said, raising his hands defensively. "It's just," he looked down at the clipboard that he was filling with the tape measure's lengths, "you're a little big for a seeker."

Harry laughed. "Don't go there," he said as Malfoy glared at him. "You're giving him the perfect excuse next time he loses to Gryffindor."

"Ahhh…Gryffindor and Slytherin seekers. You two are just paired up in everything aren't you?" Lynx said, before Malfoy had a chance to retort. "Fun Quidditch matches those were. I was in Gryffindor myself."

"How could I tell?" Malfoy muttered.

Harry saw Lynx scowl as he bent down to take the latest measurements, but he ignored Malfoy's sarcasm. "Of course," he continued, "back when Toby and I were in school, Slytherin was still winning every year. Glad to hear there's some competition again." He winked at Harry, "My little brother tells me you've got something to do with that."

Toby cleared his throat, "Less chatting Lynx. Kingsley'll have our skins if we take too long."

"Right. Um, any mental concerns we should know about?"

"No," Harry shook his head, trying not to think about the mental connection he shared with Voldemort.

"No," Draco replied. He looked at his watch impatiently.

"Any systemic physical health problems?"

"None."

"None."

"Wonderful." Toby waved his wand and the instruments disappeared. "We'll do the running first and the dueling last. Lynx, you two run the opposite circuit?"

Lynx nodded and finished up with Malfoy, as Toby led Harry away. It took over two hours for the two of them to finish. Harry quickly decided that running a mile just to time himself and doing presses and rows for the sake of it wasn't his cup of tea – they were the kinds of things that the Gryffindor Quidditch team used to groan about when Oliver Wood forced them at practice. But once they'd gotten past that preparation and he began dueling Toby, Harry felt in his element. This was something he knew he was good at.

The Arctor didn't disappoint. After five years of training, his reflexes and positioning were excellent, and it took him less than two minutes to smash Harry across the dueling room floor the first time. Still, after the initial surprise, Harry managed to hold his own. By the time they were done, Toby was rubbing his jaw furiously and looking quite impressed.

"Nice job Potter," he said, as he led him through the floor and toward the locker rooms near the entrance. "You've got wicked aim. And you're disarming charm's _excellent_."

"Thanks," Harry smiled, breathing heavily.

Toby chuckled, "You really were something. There are Academy first years that aren't that good yet." He sighed, "Then again, I suppose you have experience."

"Yeah," Harry said somberly, "I suppose I do."

Kingsley was waiting for them by the locker rooms, rubbing his brow with a worried expression on his face.

"Everything alright?" Harry asked.

"There was a Dark Mark on Amelia Bones' copy of the _Daily Prophet_ this morning," he said quietly.

"They're threatening her?"

"That's what it looks like."

Toby's eyes had widened, "Is there anything we can do to help sir?"

"We have it under control Toby, and you'd do well to remember you haven't graduated yet," Kingsley said calmly. He sighed, "Still. I hope you'll keep quiet. No need to start an administrative panic."

"Of course sir," Toby swallowed nervously.

Kingsley nodded, "Now where in the world is Lynx? Still gabbing? You two have the girls to do before the end of the day."

"The kid's a Malfoy," Toby shrugged, "He's probably spent his young adult life sipping martinis and gambling on horse races. Wouldn't surprise me if he was a little slow."

As Harry laughed, Kingsley shot Toby a disapproving look. "What?" the Auror objected, his accent particularly strong. "I know we're supposed to be polite…and I was. That doesn't mean I have to pretend _I don't know_ who his family is."

"Hey," Lynx finally ran up to them, alone. He looked excited.

"I asked you to be timely," Kingsley said sternly.

"Sorry," Lynx apologized. "But I had to clean him out."

Kingsley's mouth fell open and for the first time that day, his composure and patience seemed to fall away. "_He's on drugs_?" he exclaimed roughly, "Oh for the love of - "

"Oh _no_," Lynx shook his head furiously. "He was completely clean. I just thought he _had_ to be taking something."

Kingsley shook his head more calmly, "Get to the point Lynx. And where is he anyway?"

"Told him to grab water and a granola bar back there. Actually I was trying to ditch him so I could talk to you first. Smart huh?"

"Lynx…"

"Get to the point, right. Well, I'm not sure how to say this, so I'll just come out with it: The kid's a beast Kingsley."

"Excuse me?" Kinglsey's eyebrows shot up and Harry snorted.

Lynx handed him his clipboard. "Don't laugh, I'm serious," he began quickly. "There's barely an ounce of fat on him for starters. He benched over 330; his mile was 4:37 and I didn't even _push_…Granted, his dueling was average, no more impressive than anyone else's would be, probably less so than Harry Potter's here, but everything else…_damn_. We have full fledged Aurors who aren't this fast or fit."

Toby looked over Kingsley's shoulder at Draco's report. "I stand corrected about the martinis," he muttered.

Kingsley folded it over, away from Toby's sight and Harry's craning neck. "Really you two…"

"Malfoy walks around school with two bulky idiots for bodyguards," Harry explained, shaking his head incredulously.

"Apparently he doesn't need them," Toby muttered. "I only bench around 250 and I handle myself just fine."

Lynx hadn't stopped talking. " – I swear Kingsley, whoever's training him – and someone has to be – we need to _hire_ the bastard. I mean, I don't even know what to put on his training log and I'm pretty creative about these things if I do say so myse - "

Kingsley raised a hand to interrupt him. "Give him Aramis's assignment," he said coldly. "That ought to knock the wind out of him. And stop fawning Lynx, you're a fifth year Arctor. Anyway, he's coming over and the last thing any Malfoy needs is an ego boost."

Draco did walk up to them at that moment. His shirt was still drenched with sweat and it looked like he had dumped water over his head. Clearly knowing they'd been talking about him, he wasn't even trying to hold back the smirk on his face. "Well that was fun," he said in a fake, jovial voice. "Can't wait to do it again."

Kingsley smiled thinly at him but didn't say anything. As he turned to give Lynx and Toby a few added instructions, Malfoy moved to stand next to Harry, who was trying to keep an indifferent expression on his face.

"It's awful isn't it?" he whispered, so low that only Harry could hear, enunciating every syllable, "The feeling of your stomach slowly sinking as you realize that someone you thought you had _all figured out_ is a lot more dangerous than you'd ever believed…"

"Shut up Malfoy," Harry snapped.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry sat crossed legged at the top of his bed with a tub of Florean Fortescue's ice cream-to-go in his lap. "I feel like a depressed teenage girl," he muttered.

"You look like a depressed teenage girl mate," Ron sniggered. At the look on Harry's face, he swallowed, "Sorry."

Harry's discussion with Kingsley couldn't have possibly gone worse. Before he'd even opened his mouth to complain, Kingsley had shaken his head. "I can't do a thing about it," he'd grumbled. "Dumbledore's orders. The Malfoy boy stays unless he does something stupid or dangerous. And so do you, even if that means Tonks, Arthur, and I have to drag you here kicking and screaming every morning. Believe me, I'm no happier with it than you are. Take it up with Dumbledore. Maybe he'll listen to you." But when they'd finally returned to Grimmauld Place, Molly Weasley told them that Dumbledore had stopped by earlier that afternoon to say he'd be gone for the next few days. As usual, he'd left no manner of contacting him, not for something as relatively inconsequential as Harry's summer internship.

As a result, Harry was fuming. Ron and Hermione had barely gotten the story out of him, and not without having to very patiently put up with a good bit of his angst, frustrations, and uncharacteristic cursing. It had been Fred and George's idea to set him up with ice cream. "It'll mitigate the shouting," Fred had said as he gave it to Hermione. "Might as well try something."

"Come on Harry," Hermione began again. "Ignore him; it's not worth all this…"

"Oh really?" Harry snapped. "Easy for you to say. You're going to be sitting in a cushy office all summer raising money for children's charities."

"That sounds a little judgmental mate," Ron objected, as Hermione blushed lightly at his defense of her.

Harry ignored him. "And you're spending the summer at Mungo's," he nodded toward Ron, "with sweet, sick people you can feel _sorry for_."

"It's not like that'll be easy," Ron said. "The woman that's supposed to train us didn't come in and we spent all bloody day washing bodily fluids out of cauldrons. It was disgusting."

"Let's trade," Harry snapped sarcastically.

"Harry," Hermione said firmly. She pushed the ice cream away and grabbed his hands. "It's _Malfoy_. We've put up with him for _years_. We've known his father is a Death Eater for_ years_. We've known he'd want to be one for_ years_. Nothing's changed Harry."

"Except I guess Malfoy's smarter and…brawnier…than we thought," Ron muttered awkwardly and with some disgust.

"Ron!" Hermione snapped. "You're not helping."

"He's right though," Harry insisted. "Doesn't that bother you Hermione? That he has the same scores you do at least?"

"No!" she objected. "Why would it?"

"Because you're Hermione Granger," Harry said matter-of-factly. "And you're the best in our year. And you like everyone to know it. And you won't want to be bested by the likes of Draco Malfoy." He smiled briefly and added, "Not that you are."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I appreciate healthy competition," she insisted. "And don't laugh Ron – it's true. Plus, I've always known he's smart. Professor Vector brags about him in class. It's never bothered me – I'm SERIOUS. It's not like he _tries_ in class. And _you Harry_, you're missing the point."

Harry rolled his eyes as Hermione pressed his hands more tightly. "This isn't about Malfoy and you know it. Who cares what he _might _be able to do? He's irrelevant. No, this is about you being _angry_ Harry. With Dumbledore, with the Order, with _life_…And you're picking the easiest possible excuse to _stay_ angry." She swallowed, "Let go Harry. _Please_. It's not _helping_ you. Dumbledore set you up with this internship because he wanted to get you out of this house – "

"Right, and next to the son of a Death Eater that helped kill my godfather," Harry snapped.

" – because being in this house is going to keep you angry," Hermione continued, ignoring him. "Because he thought you could sit at a desk this summer and train and read about Death Eaters and about what the Ministry is trying to do and about the _allies we have_ in this fight and take your mind off the pain. He honestly thought that this would help you fight off your hatred and frustrations and _don't dare _try telling me you don't need to. Trust him Harry. He knows best."

Harry sighed; there was nothing he could say in reply to Hermione's speech, and even if there had been, he wouldn't want to argue with her. Ron sat down on the bed next to him. "Brilliant pep talk Hermione," he mumbled. "Are you going to finish this ice cream Harry?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron reached for the tub of mint, and even Harry couldn't help sniggering.

"Actually," Ron continued. "Hermione has at least one good point. This job could be useful."

"Oh definitely," Hermione insisted. "I mean, as long as the Death Eaters don't take over the Ministry, the Aurors are on our side. I'm sure they know a lot. It's going to be invaluable to see the information they have and to know what they're capable of and willing to do in this war. Part of me would love that kind of opportunity – and Harry don't you dare ask me to trade."

"I wasn't!" Harry laughed.

"Well," Ron mumbled between scoops of ice cream, "Maybe. That's not what I meant though." He took another bite, "I was actually thinking about all that 'Chosen One' bullshit. It was all over the papers again today. Sorta getting a little annoying – no offense mate. It's just, everyone's up in arms about it. Maybe you can set the Ministry or the press or someone else straight about that."

"Maybe," Harry said slowly. The smile fell off his face.

"Harry…" Hermione began. She'd been watching him closely and immediately noticed the change in expression. "What's wrong Harry?" She shook him.

He didn't reply.

"_Ron stop eating_," Hermione snapped. "Harry…" When he didn't say anything again, she sucked her breath in. "It's true isn't it?" she said slowly. "What they're saying…"

Harry shut his eyes and nodded.

"Blimey…" Ron breathed. He wasn't paying attention to the ice cream anymore. Both his and Hermione's eyes were fixed on Harry.

"D – Dumbledore told me," Harry finally began. "That's what was in the prophecy. That's why Voldemort wanted it." As he began to recount what had happened in Dumbledore's office that night, he felt a knot unfold in his chest, a relief at having finally told someone the secret. The words poured out: the prophecy, Neville, why his parents had died…He could also see the expected shock spreading on his friends' faces, however hard they were trying to hide it. Ron was swallowing repeatedly; he was having a hard time looking Harry in the eye. Hermione's face had paled and her lips were pursed tightly.

"Oh Harry…" she breathed, when he finished.

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me," Harry snapped. He shook his head and continued bitterly, "But before you tear into me about being angry again: if you knew that in the end you'd either have to fight and try to kill _Voldemort_ or – or to be killed by him as he wins this war…if you knew that was your inescapable _fate_, wouldn't that make you a little angry?"

Hermione bit her lip, "I – I wo - "

"Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley's voice sounded from downstairs. "Hermione, can you come and give me a hand?"

Hermione smiled faintly, but Harry could tell she was glad to have an excuse to leave the room. "I'll be back," she said quickly.

After she left, Harry and Ron sat together in silence for some time. It was Harry who broke it, "You don't have anything to say?"

Ron swallowed again. "I'm sorry mate," he muttered, an odd, disconnected tone in his voice.

Harry grunted. "Hand me that ice cream."

"You know," Ron continued, as he gave Harry the tub. "Maybe you…maybe you shouldn't think of it as such a bad thing."

"_What_?" Harry looked up at him quickly.

"I only mean – well, of all the destinies you could have, being the savior of the wizarding world isn't all that – well there could be worse fat – "

"You think this is some _gift?_" Harry interrupted, the anger rising in his voice again.

"No – no that's not what I mea – "

"What exactly do you mean Ron?" Harry interrupted.

Ron sighed and shook his head, "Nothing. Never mind."

* * *

Draco was in his element. Leaning back in one of the plush red seats of his family's private box at the Barkwith Center, he had a perfect view of both the stage and of the crowd below and around him. He'd heard their whispers the moment he'd set foot in the foyer, the curious attention of hundreds of witches and wizards directed toward the only heir of wizarding Europe's wealthiest family and now the only son of an arrested and disgraced aristocrat. And despite all they may have been thinking to themselves or whispering among each other, they still smiled widely as he approached, still nodded fervently as he spoke, still walked up to him to console the family or mention a monetary interest or just plain suck up. They couldn't help themselves, not with the way Draco walked and talked and smirked and shook their hands firmly and with confidence, as if he were on top of the world and not a thing was disrupting the perfection of his life, as if not a thing would dare. He reveled in the feeling. This was a dueling arena for social graces instead of spells, and he was as good as they came.

"The Flints send their greetings," Nott said, walking back into the box with two glass of champagne and handing one to Draco, "Sympathies to you and your mother, congratulations on the Ministry job, yadda yadda yadda."

Draco smirked and raised his glass in a mock toast. "I'll be sure to see them before we leave for the Greengrass's. I've been wondering what Marcus has been up to. And Goyle would it _kill you_ to stop groaning?"

In the box's second short row of seats, Goyle fidgeted next to Crabbe. "It's hot," he whined in a low voice. "And this bowtie's tight as hell."

"It's not our fault you've gained weight," Draco said matter-of-factly. "Shouldn't you be bulking up on muscle to protect some rock star this summer anyway?"

Crabbe snorted, "We're serving as underage bodyguard _assistants_. Bulky or not, we're not getting any fun jobs."

"Pity," Draco muttered, not sounding the least bit interested. The lights suddenly flickered twice, signaling ten minutes until the end of intermission. "Where's Daphne?"

"Talking to the Bulstrodes," Nott said from the seat next to him. "I think she was saying something about how wonderful the view is from this box."

Draco smirked, "Best seats in the house for over four hundred years."

"Something I'm sure you're grateful for tonight," Nott smirked.

Draco turned to him, "Excuse me?"

Not rolled his eyes, "Come on Malfoy, I know that look. That something's-caught-my-eye, gleaming, _predatory_ look? The one you get when you want something?"

Sipping casually on his champagne, Draco leaned back further into his seat, "I have no idea what you mean…"

Nott laughed, "_Really_? And you weren't leaning forward as Astoria danced the Avalon variation either?"

Crabbe sniggered stupidly, "Draco has a _crush._"

"Don't be ridiculous Crabbe," Malfoy snapped. "And you know Theodore, just because Blaise isn't around doesn't mean you get promoted to second-in-command of sarcasm."

The smile immediately fell off Nott's face.

"Still," Malfoy continued, "there's something about her isn't there? Those legs..." He sniggered, "What can I say, I have a thing for dancers."

"I know, I saw you in Moscow," Nott said with a thin smile, but the mocking was distinctly gone from his voice. "It's been a while though," he continued carefully, "since I've seen you look quite this interested in any one individual. Considering your love of the chase and your at least moderate respect for the Greengrasses, this might actually be interesting for the rest of us to watch."

As the light flickered again, Draco laughed, "Watch all you like. You might pick up some _tips_."

* * *

Draco Malfoy shot up in bed, his head throbbing furiously. He looked at the clock on his nightstand: 3:00AM. His breath heaved roughly as he fumbled out of his sheets and managed to walk to the bathroom.

Shaking forcefully, he grabbed both sides of the marble sink and looked at himself in the tall, glossy mirror. His face and bare chest were drenched, every pore and crease between his abs pouring with sweat. The area around his collarbone looked fine at least, clear. He clenched his eyes tightly and tried to force the images out of his head: the hooded cloaks, the prowling figures, the piles of bodies, the blood…The pain on his head and sink was incessant. Angrily, he placed a palm on his forehead. His skin was hot, searing even.

"Dammit," Draco muttered, as his shaking fingers struggled to turn on the cold water. Trying to cool himself off, he swallowed heavily. Even so, his panting breaths weren't becoming more regular. It hadn't been this bad in a long time.

Leaning closer towards the mirror, Draco looked at his eyes. The pupils seemed normal, that shade of cold, hard grey. But no…maybe they were paler, hazed over, a little less saturated…

Draco shook his head quickly and lowered it far into the sink, so that the icy water could flow over his burning scalp. Thoughts like those were paranoid. He was fine. He'd been in complete control for almost six years. Whatever might happen, he wouldn't lose it now.

* * *

I really hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. Things were still transitional and expository, but the details here are going to be really important later in the story and things will start picking up next chapter! Please, please review and let me know what you think. I love any comments, compliments, criticisms, predictions, and suggestions. I really appreciated them last week, as I did some of the referrals to your fanfiction-loving friends. And if I get a lot of reviews, the next chapter will come up more quickly! :)

And here's a rare extra, a Sneak Peek to the next chapter:

_Harry was quiet for a moment and then put away his wand. "You know," he began slowly. "You're starting to make me wonder Malfoy…If I'd shaken your hand that first day of class, maybe you'd have turned out differently."_

_It was the first time during the exchange that Draco looked taken aback. But the surprised expression was immediately replaced by one of disgust. "Your ego puts mine to shame Potter," he spat. "Let me assure you that no matter what you may or may not have done, regardless of how that much would have changed things, I'd still have ended up right here, standing on this exact same floor, looking at that exact same cabinet with more or less the exact same expression on my face." He paused and his face took a more neutral expression, "Now that was poetic."_


	3. Chapter 2: Partners

Hi everyone! I know it's been a long time since I've last updated, but I hope the VERY long length of this chapter makes up for it. Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: PARTNERS**

The sky was dark that night. Whirls of green and burgundy clouds shrouded the stars, and an eerie purple mist had fallen to the earth. It was as if the heavens themselves were battled, bruised. Below the turbulence of the skies, the cobblestones were wet with that afternoon's rain. Not a soul was walking the streets. The windows of the thatched houses and shops were dark, curtains covering the panes, no smoke rising from the chimneys. Zonko's had haphazardly barred its front door shut with large planks of rotting wood. Most of the other owners in Hogsmeade hadn't taken the time to provide for security. The village seemed deserted.

But it wasn't. Dementors were making their way up the streets, flying shortly above the cobblestones. They came slowly at first, but in the span of minutes they were entering in droves. It must have been their presence that made the air seem so heavy and so stifled.

Yet not even they were alone. Beneath the cloaks that were billowing in the wind, a long, thin cover of darkness was crawling forward. Not a cloud or a mist, but an active, living thing. They were carpet-like masses, crowding the streets, the few porches, the storefronts, even the walls.

Suddenly a piercing cry rang out. Above the Dementors, flying deep within the mist, was a huge black creature with a horned beak of grey stone and large, fibrous wings. From deep within its throat sounded the high shriek. And it was this blood-curling screech that remained ringing in Blaise Zabini's head as the image in his mind's eye faded away into blackness.

Blaise opened his eyes and shivered. Around him, rows of young men and women dressed in the same drab khaki as he were staring curiously toward him. Some looked jealous; many of them had studied Divination at this academy since they were young children, day in and day out for years, and almost none had the same kind of gift that Blaise did.

"Well?" Francesco Zabini was standing in front of him, looking down at his nephew, who was still shaking slightly from his cross-legged position on the floor.

Blaise swallowed heavily, "It was Hogsmeade. Being attacked…I think. I don't know when or wh - " He sat up straighter, swallowed again, and spoke with the appropriate formality, "I mean that I don't quite understand it sir."

Francesco nodded, "Good."

"Sir?"

"When what you See becomes more difficult to understand, only then are you beginning to See things that are indeed _worth _Seeing."

* * *

It was Arthur Weasley who escorted Harry to the Ministry the following morning, pulling him through the mass of cameras and microphones that were being thrust into his face as they made their way toward the security grade and lifts. The press mob was even bigger than it had been the day before; the news that Harry Potter was "working with" or "assisting" or "cooperating alongside" the Ministry – the verb and implicit suggestions depended on the periodical you chose to read – had spread like fiendfyre and every journalist in London seemed to want a sound bite.

"Mr. Potter, how do you feel about the sacking of former Minister Fudge?"

"Are you really the Chosen One, Mr. Potter?"

"Harry, do you approve of the Ministry's current approach to the war?"

"What do you think should be done with the Death Eaters being held in Azkaban? Should they be executed immediately?"

"Don't say anything," Arthur whispered, as he pushed past a witch with an absurdly tall, singing hat. "Ignore them."

"Excuse me!" a voice from behind Harry shouted, "Mr. Malfoy! Draco Malfoy!"

For the first time he could remember, Harry felt mildly relieved that Malfoy was around. A good part of the press, shrugging off the rejection they were getting from Harry, turned around to ask questions to the son of a convicted Death Eater suddenly working for the Ministry.

"Oh he'd make a _juicy_ cover photo," a short, mustached man carrying a _Witch Weekly_ camera mumbled as he pushed past Harry.

"Mr. Malfoy, do you think your work here will help your father?"

"Does your family still maintain Lucius Malfoy's innocence?"

"Draco, are you trying to follow in your great-grandfather's footsteps?"

Harry could here Draco from behind him. "No comment," he snarled. "I maintain that my family has _no comment_."

"How hard is it going to be for you to work alongside Harry Potter?"

"What do you hope to gain from this internship Mr. Malfoy?"

"You touch the blazer again and you're paying the three thousand galleons," Draco growled under his breath.

Harry and Mr. Weasley made it through wand security and to the far end of the room much before Malfoy, but by the time the lift arrived he was standing behind them, setting his suit straight and shaking his head in disgust.

"Vultures," he muttered to himself, before he followed Harry and Mr. Weasley in, acknowledging neither of them. Across from Malfoy, Harry sniggered softly. Standing straight-backed at the side of the lift, his feet square, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a large cup of coffee, were it not for the long cloak around his shoulders, Draco would have done an excellent job of passing for a young Muggle broker in the center of London's Square Mile. Knowing how much that comparison would have horrified him, Harry couldn't help feeling amused.

Draco must have realized that Harry was laughing at him, because he looked up quickly in annoyance. Before he could retort, however, the lift stopped at Level 6, the Department of Magical Transportation, and a tall, wrinkled wizard with hard features and a long, grey ponytail entered.

"Arthur," the man nodded briskly. As he turned to Harry, a sneer formed on his face. There was a cold, almost predatory look in his eyes. Harry swallowed and as the wizard turned away, Mr. Weasley lowered his head and mouthed toward him, "Death Eater."

"_Draco Malfoy_," the wizard greeted in a low voice, "Well look at you."

"Yaxley," Draco smiled and reached forward to shake the wizard's hand.

"The spitting image of your father. And tall, trim, and working at the Ministry to boot. Your great-grandfather would be _proud_."

"Thank you sir," Draco replied smugly.

"I actually paid a visit to your dear mother the other day," Yaxley continued.

"Oh?" Draco replied. His voice remained casual, but there was now a tone of heightened albeit guarded interest in it.

"Indeed. I was sad to miss you, wanted to express my condolences. Your mother said you were in Italy?"

"Escorting a friend," Draco supplied. "Although unfortunately I won't be home at all this summer."

Yaxley appeared surprised, "Really?"

"Ease of travel. I've had my own flat in London since I was thirteen. It was time to make use of it."

"Ah." The lift stopped at Level 3 and Yaxley cleared his throat, "Well nevertheless I'm sure I'll be seeing you around often enough."

"I'll make a point of it," Draco replied, nodding to the older wizard as he walked briskly toward the offices of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

The short trip up a level to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was spent in silence. Malfoy continued to ignore his two companions and hurried out of the lift the second the doors opened. Behind him, Arthur Weasley pulled Harry back.

"The Order suspects," Arthur whispered quickly, "that the Death Eaters are using Malfoy Manor as headquarters. They did last time."

"Why wouldn't Malfoy want to live there then?" Harry asked quickly. "Avoiding Death Eaters? That doesn't sound like him."

"Lucius bungled the prophecy job," Arthur replied, "You-Know-Who can't be pleased with the family." Mr. Weasley grabbed Harry by both arms. "Listen Harry," he whispered, "whatever Dumbledore or Kingsley might believe, there's _one thing_ you can know for sure: there is _nothing_ worse to a Death Eater than losing _his_ favor. And once it's lost, they will do _anything_ to get it back, try any means, use _anyone_."

"Even their children…" Harry completed Mr. Weasley's thought.

Arthur nodded, "Watch yourself Harry."

* * *

Despite Mr. Weasley's warning, however, the morning was as dull as could be. Draco seemed to have adopted the policy of acting as if Harry weren't there, something Harry himself was perfectly fine with accepting. A silent albeit uneasy truce was the best he could have hoped for in the first place. And slowly but steadily, work was coming in to occupy his attention, busywork though it might have been.

Throughout the morning, Aurors streamed in and out of their office, handing them handwritten notes that had to be turned into proper case reports. Harry had a feeling, however, that they were far more interested in meeting some of the interns than getting their paperwork done. Most of them didn't even bother distributing their notes and files to the girls on the other side of the glass door. They stopped primarily at Harry's desk and smiled widely, trying to make small talk for as long as possible. A few alluded to the war, attempting to pry information out of Harry. And a few particularly daring ones inquired directly about what had happened in the Department of Mysteries earlier that year. He could tell most of them wanted to ask if he really was the 'Chosen One' or not, but they'd probably been told by department administrators not to mention any of the rumors in front of him.

As the questioning became more persistent, Harry tried to keep his tone polite yet curt. He knew that the entire summer would probably pass this way, or at least it would until the Aurors got over the novelty of having him around. And he could watch their reactions to Malfoy with both interest and amusement. Next to Harry, he was easily the intern to which they were paying most attention. They'd turn around from Harry and look at him, smiling thinly or staring gravely. Some of them were silent as they plopped files on his desk. Many of them would mention his great-grandfather; a few who'd known the Malfoys longer tried chatting casually with him or offered indirect support to the family. Most of the younger ones just seemed curious, and Harry thought he saw one first year trainee turn his neck sideways to look at Draco's forearm, as if he expected to see the Dark Mark there in plain sight.

The witches seemed much less suspicious, however, and a few of them were actively flirting with both him and Harry. One particular woman, however, didn't even try hiding her disgust. The moment she entered the room and saw Draco, her face turned cold. She didn't even look toward Harry, only glared angrily at Malfoy as she placed a thick file on his desk. It had a large red stamp on it, with the word DECEASED, and Draco seemed genuinely surprised. He was about to ask when the tall, blonde witch finally spoke. "Your aunt killed my fiancé," she said coldly. To which Malfoy only leaned back and in a casual, completely unsympathetic tone, almost as if he were trying hard to keep himself from laughing or rolling his eyes, replied softly, "My apologies."

Harry shook his head when that witch walked out quietly. "You're disgusting," he muttered.

"Sticks. And. Stones. Potter." Malfoy said, unfazed. It was the only exchange the two had that morning.

By one o'clock, Harry had gotten tired of the continual flood of curious Aurors and the almost awkward hate-filled silence that filled the room when they left. He was about to take a break and go eat – Susan had just left with Luciana – when the door opened for the umpteenth time that day and two men walked in.

Both were tall and extremely well built. One had golden-brown hair that fell to his shoulders in thick curls; the other's head was completely shaved. They were both smirking.

"Well, well, well…Harry Potter," the curly-haired one shot out his hand to shake Harry's. "Aramis. This is Hector. We're fourth year Arctor students. Former Ravenclaws. Former Head Boy and Quidditch Captain at Hogwarts. Respectively."

"Nice to meet you," Harry said, smiling thinly. He disliked the two instantly. They practically stank of arrogance, more so than anyone else he'd interacted with that morning. That was saying something too, considering that he'd been sitting across from Draco for about five hours.

Hector was standing in front of him with his arms crossed and an intent stare on his face. "Hmm," he finally grunted. "A little bit scrawny for the Chosen One."

"W – what?" Harry stammered, taken aback by Hector's mocking tone and surprised to hear anyone mention the topic in the first place after a morning of evasion and subtle allusions.

"And he stammers," Aramis said. "That's a sign of poor charisma."

"Can't have a great leader without charisma," Hector added.

"Not that you look like much of a leader anyway," Aramis nodded to him.

"I wouldn't follow you into battle at least."

The smile had fallen off Harry's face. "Well," he said coldly, "if the time ever comes, I'll be sure not to ask you."

Aramis laughed loudly. "_You_ _ask_ _us_? Please, we're our year's best."

"We're the Ministry's best," Hector rephrased.

"Top of the class since we've gotten here. Two of only _twenty_ Auror or Arctor students to actually work a job _before_ graduating in the last ten years. Our scores are perfect; our stats are perfect. And let me tell you, now that this war's running in full force, it's going to be _us_ on the front lines, not some _kid_."

"See," Hector continued. "We don't get lucky. We don't wait for our _mummies_ or our _mentors_ to save our skins. We just win, plain and simple, and we don't need any _Chose One _to do it."

As Harry glared at them incredulously, Malfoy suddenly sniggered at his desk. "Please, carry on," he said amusedly, as the two Arctors turned toward him. "Don't mind me."

"You," Aramis began, pointing at him, "_you're_ the one they gave my physical regiment to. Or at least, half of it. Interns always have it easy."

"We should know," Hector added. "We both had this job four years ago."

Aramis was nodding slowly. "Impressive I suppose," he said toward Malfoy "although to be honest, you don't exactly seem much like a warrior either. More…_suited_…to plan a gala." He sniggered at his pun.

If Malfoy was taken aback by the tone, he didn't show it. "If you're interested, I can refer you to my tailor," he replied smoothly, in the same confident, nonchalant tone he'd used with Yaxley in the elevator and with the tall, blonde witch just hours before.

Aramis snorted, "Clever aren't you?"

"Must be a family trait," Hector smirked. "Although one that ebbs away when times get rough."

"See, we helped bring your father over to Azkaban."

"Sniveling like a rat he was, fear written on every inch of his old, pale face."

"I half expected him to try and pay us off to bring him hair products."

"Not that he'd have been able to make an offer."

"We'd never have heard the words, he was _whimpering so loudly_."

"Tears would have been less pathetic."

Draco stood up quickly with his face reddening and his jaw clenched, knocking an inkwell off his desk in the process.

"_Calm_," Aramis said, before Draco cold retort, taking out his wand and levitating the inkwell back on the desk's corner. "We wouldn't want _both _Malfoy men to end up in prison. That'd be a real shame."

Hector laughed and threw a few leaflets of paper on both desks, "Have fun you two. We'll be around."

Harry smiled bitterly as the two walked out. They had obviously come in to have a look at him and assert their influence in the Ministry. At least this was one thing with which he wouldn't let himself get frustrated. He was used to being discredited, not to mention that he'd been expecting to meet plenty of Ministry workers who either didn't understand what it meant for Voldemort to have returned or were falsely overconfident about their ability to defeat him. As Hermione would have wisely pointed out, getting offended wouldn't have been worth the effort. They'd all come to their senses soon enough.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed far less comfortable. He had sat back down and started writing again, but his face was still red and he seemed flustered, scribbling quickly and stopping at intervals to drum his fingers angrily on the desktop. The cool and detached attitude that he'd adopted for the previous day and entire morning had fallen away immediately at the mention his father. Harry couldn't help feeling a little inner satisfaction.

* * *

Somewhat surprisingly, and to the severe disappointment of Harry's futile albeit consistent hopes that Malfoy _would_ do something stupid and get himself removed from the Ministry, "cool and detached" seemed to be Draco's default state. That incident with Aramis and Hector was the closest he came to losing control. He spent the rest of the week working quickly through case report forms at his desk, and when he wasn't doing paperwork, he was presumably on the training floor. He ignored Harry almost completely. When he spoke, he was sarcastic, but in fact he rarely spoke. And he kept out of the way far more than would have been expected of someone who spent his school days making as much childish and immature trouble as he could.

In fact, were it not for seeing him in the same room day in and day out, Harry would have forgotten Draco was even around. He had become busy enough himself, frustratingly so. While his immediate guess that he'd be spending the summer doing little more than paperwork had been proven right, he had stunningly underestimated the actual difficulty of the job. The statues that had to be written in full on every report were buried deep in huge and largely disorganized Ministry volumes with old, sticky pages and tiny text, and they were only identifiable by long sequences and subsequences of numbers. The Dursleys had always kept Harry as far away from their computer as possible, and he'd never really understood how anyone, even Dudley, could spend so much time sitting in front of one machine and becoming so dependent on it; now he could easily imagine its usefulness. And he was quickly developing a feeling of pity toward the first year Auror students who apparently did this work when interns were around. On the other hand, he'd lost any ability to imagine how Hermione could actually find research "fun."

Then there was the challenge of dealing with the case files themselves. Most of the Aurors and Arctors had handwriting that was difficult to decipher, and they often wrote in shorthand. To Harry's frustration, in some cases it was taking him hours to figure out what was already written in the notes he'd been handed, not to mention to fill his forms out. It didn't help his general annoyance at the job that Malfoy seemed to be moving through his work at a much faster pace.

Worst of all, the cases he was being handed seemed almost inconsequential; most of them looked like they belonged more to the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol Squad than the Aurors themselves and in any other time would have been considered as such. Granted, Harry was sure that Mrs. Stevenson was upset that her old cat had suddenly begun acting psychotic, but her claim that Death Eaters were possessing it had made him literally laugh aloud. Not to mention there were a string of petty break-ins and burglaries; numerous arrests and late-night attacks on witches, wizards, and even Muggles that had been mistaken for Death Eaters; and the general rowdiness and stupidity of kids that didn't understand the gravity of the war well enough to keep from trying to emulate its participants for a few laughs. All terrible incidents, but none at the level of Voldemort-induced tragedy. Yet as pointless as these claims may have seemed in a time like this, the Ministry was obligated to investigate them and equally obligated to file away reports. Harry had tried asking Kingsley whether the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was actually doing something productive to unravel real crimes and capture actual Death Eaters; the only mumbled and evasive response he received, however, was that while they certainly were, first and second year Auror students must have been handling most of that paperwork and Harry could only wait until one randomly appeared on his desk.

By that Friday, Harry's general boredom and frustration had reached a high point. The notes he was trying to read made even Ron's handwriting look neat, the letters were minuscule, half of the words were abbreviated, and the faux case itself was about the theft of some oriental vase from a rich couple's condominium in west London, an incident they'd insisted be reported to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement itself out of an ironclad belief that no one but a Death Eater would dare break into their home and rob them. He'd spent over an hour on the groan-inducing report and wasn't halfway through, so when the door opened late that morning and provided the opportunity for a welcome distraction, Harry almost jumped out of his seat.

His stomach, however, fell sharply at the sight of Percy Weasley standing in the doorway. The elder Weasley was almost unchanged from the last time Harry had seen him. His hair was a little shorter and his face a little thinner, but his lips were still pursed in that infuriating expression of rigid pompousness. Harry thought he may have seen him nod a greeting, but if so it was barely perceptible. He might as well have blinked. Harry didn't bother to acknowledge him, not after all the pain he was still causing Mrs. Weasley and everything he'd said about Harry the year before. Groaning slightly, he returned to the case of the missing Chinese porcelain.

Percy cleared his throat, "Mr. Malfoy."

Draco had looked up over the large book of statues he was browsing when the door had first opened and had lost interest immediately, but at the sound of his name sighed loudly and slammed the book shut. He grunted in reply.

"Good afternoon, I'm Percy Weasley, Senior Assistant to Minister of Magic Rufu - "

"I went to school with you Weasley, drop the act," Draco drawled, clearly not interested in giving the Weasley any more respect than he always had, Ministry official or not. "How have I offended the dear Minister?"

Harry pretended to keep writing but started to listen carefully. Malfoy might have managed to stay trouble-free that week, but Harry had no doubt that any callous reference to his family would yet again make him lose his temper instantly. And after all, there were only a few things that an assistant to the Minister of Magic could possibly want to discuss with Draco, and none of them had to do with job performance.

Percy cleared his throat again, an expression of severe annoyance at Malfoy's disrespect crossing his face. "You haven't," he replied quickly. "Your mother has."

As Harry predicted, the smirk instantly fell off Draco's face and his back straightened quickly. "Excuse me?" he asked curtly.

Percy walked over briskly and handed Draco a set of papers. "She refuses to sign these documents. In fact she refuses to permit us to enter the _grounds_ -"

"Imagine that," Draco snapped.

" – As I'm sure you know, your father's trial is being postponed indefinitely. The Ministry needs it documented that your family understands this decision and is fully aware of its remaining rights and privileges under Ministry Statue 507.4 - "

"I know what the Ministry Statue is," Draco said drily. At this point Harry had stopped pretending that he wasn't paying attention. He could tell Malfoy was getting angry. He'd completely dropped the sarcastic tone and he hadn't even looked at what Percy had handed him.

Percy smiled smugly, "Considering the prominence and implications of your father's case, your mother's resistance to acknowledging the legality of the Ministry's present course of action is causing no small frustration for the Minister, not to mention a number of…strategic complications. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that such _complications_ tend to make life difficult for both the accused _and their families_."

Harry half expected Draco to take out his wand and curse Percy right then and there. He'd been about to blow in front of Aramis and Hector earlier that week, and all they had done was be annoying and insulting. At the least if looks could kill, Percy would have dropped over before he'd finished talking.

To Harry's surprise and even grudging, although short-lived, admiration, Malfoy held his tongue. "I'm underage," he finally pointed out cooly. "Sorry I can't help."

"Irrelevant," Percy replied quickly. "You are nevertheless in charge of your father's affairs while he's in custody. Control his invest firm now do you not?"

"It's the family investment firm," Draco corrected coldly. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

It was a pretty poor insult, and both of them knew it. "I stand corrected," Percy replied, not sounding the least bit apologetic or offended. He tapped the papers on Malfoy's desk impatiently.

Draco didn't say anything else. For about five minutes, he scanned over the legal documents in complete silence as Percy stood over him. Finally, he sighed and signed each one, handing them back to Percy without a word.

"Wonderful," Percy was smiling, obviously pleased with himself for getting a coveted signature that other Ministry officials had not. Yet even though Malfoy had reopened the large statue guide and returned to his case report form, Percy didn't budge. A few awkward moments passed, then Percy cleared his throat again.

Draco stopped right. "_What?_" he hissed, now not even trying to hide the impatience and frustration in his voice.

"It's not my place," Percy began formally, "but as a formerly aspiring Ministry wizard who has achieved respectable success, I feel it a personal duty to speak. The evidence against your father is incontrovertible Draco. Your future will benefit immeasurably by your distancing yourself and providing the Ministry with any and all information you may have at your disposal."

Harry bit his lip quickly to suppress either a laugh or a gasp of shock – he wasn't quite sure which would have come out. He knew Percy had an incredible amount of nerve, but that was a level of audacity that, even after everything he'd done, Harry wouldn't have expected. He quickly looked across the glass panel to where the girls sat, but they'd left earlier that morning to finish their physical regiments. It was somewhat of a pity; Susan would have found this very entertaining.

Across the room, Malfoy's mouth had literally fallen open. He looked at Percy in silence for a few tense moments, then actually laughed. He shook his head and leaned back in his seat.

"I know it might be _challenging_ for you to understand Weasley," he began with false politesse, "but while _some people_ can denounce their families and keep their pride and consciences intact, _others_ have the decency to advance their fortunes in more tasteful ways."

Percy's face immediately turned a dark shade of pink. He opened his mouth to say something, but clearly decided against it, because without even the pretense of an official farewell, he marched out of the room without saying another word or looking at either Harry or Draco.

"What are you sniggering at Potter?" Malfoy snapped angrily.

Harry quickly suppressed his spontaneous laughter. "Nothing," he shook his head. "That – that was pretty good though," he muttered. He had absolutely no pity for either Draco or his father. They were among Voldemort's staunchest supporters, Lucius fully deserved to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban, and it wouldn't have surprised Harry one bit if Draco followed him there quite willingly before the war was over. But Percy had deserved the jab.

Draco got up to return his completed case report forms to the Aurors who'd requested them. "What can I say, I hate self righteous people," he added bitterly.

* * *

"Oh there's so much absurd bureaucracy in the Ministry," Tonks laughed. "I almost dropped out my first year because of it. Too much bullshit."

She and Harry were having a long lunch in the Ministry cafeteria. They'd been talking about Ministry administration and its general lack of efficiency, and even though Tonks had been picking slowly at her food for the past hour, she seemed in a better mood than Harry had seen her in some time.

Harry smiled, "Yeah, I can imagine how Moody was a little…controversial."

"Got that right," Tonks snorted. "Helped that he was brilliant though. Completely bonkers, but brilliant." She shook her head, "Hey, speaking of pompous Ministry assholes, I saw Percy going in to talk with you guys. What was that all about?"

Harry rolled his eyes, "He wanted to see Malfoy. His father, papers that need signing…something like that."

"Ahhhh…yeah the Wizengamot isn't trying any of the Death Eaters yet."

"Why not?"

Tonks shrugged, "If the prosecution loses, the Death Eaters go straight back to You-Know-Who. There're far too many legal technicalities to risk it. Not to mention that we really don't have any idea who in the Ministry is actually on their side. Could be enough to tilt the vote you know?" She shook her head, "Scrimgeour was head of the Auror Office. He guest lecturered in some of my classes, even went into the field with us a few times. Trust me, that man is _not_ above forgoing habeas corpus in times of crisis."

"Seems like a big improvement over Fudge."

"Oh _definitely_. Well, for the most part. Sadly enough, he did promote Percy to _Senior_ Personal Assistant. That was a negative."

"I assume Percy's not popular?"

"Of course not. The kid's a pompous git. Walks around the entire Ministry with Scrimgeour's little assignments as if he's the Minister-elect. Not to mention that he's just overly formal and plain annoying." She rolled her eyes, "I mean, I'd never say anything in front of Molly…God knows why, she still _adores_ him…but someone needs to bring the guy down a few notches and _quickly_."

"Actually, Malfoy kinda did," Harry sniggered again at the memory.

"Oh he must have been _furious_. Malfoy blood runs thick."

"Yeah he basically worships his father," Harry agreed. "But there really wasn't a problem until Percy took it upon himself to recommend that Draco turn Lucius in so that he can advance his Ministry career."

"_He didn't!_" Tonks laughed loudly. "Wow…what happened?"

"Malfoy basically told Percy that even _he_ has enough dignity and loyalty to not do to his own family what Percy did to Mr. And Mrs. Weasley."

Tonks threw her head back and clapped her hands, "Oh _wonderful_…Getting lessons on virtue from Slytherin spawn, that _has _to hurt." She paused, "Not that I'm siding with the Malfoys or anything. But you know, Percy does des - "

"I know what you mean," Harry interrupted.

Tonks shook her head in amusement for some time. "How are you two getting along anyway? You and Malfoy, not you and Percy."

Harry shrugged, "Fine. It's been a pretty uneventful week."

"Much to Kinglsey's relief I'm sure. He was preparing for the worst. 'Dreading' is probably a better word."

"I mean, it's not that we _like_ each other any better than we ever have. But Malfoy and I only argue when he opens his mouth, and he's been pretty quiet. Uncharacteristically I guess. Just works and, um, _works out_."

"Oh right. I heard he's impressive on that count." She shrugged, "Although Lynx tends to be impressed very easily."

"You know him?"

"Oh _yeah_." Tonks smiled. "Pretty well as a matter of fact."

Harry laughed, "Tonks are you _blushing_?"

She rolled her eyes. "I may have dated him," she muttered. "Well don't look so surprised!"

Harry's mouth had fallen open. "S - sorry," he said quickly. "It's just - Lynx is so…so…"

"Overly hyper? And cheery? And excitable? And not at all awesomely badass like I am?" Tonks laughed.

"Um, yeah all of the above."

Tonks laughed, "Believe it or not we had a pretty good rapport. We were in all the same classes and everything. Well, until he decided to go on and be an Arctor. Then things changed for the worse I guess."

"Can I ask why?" Harry asked.

"Oh don't be so awkward." Tonks rolled her eyes and shrugged, "No big deal or anything. It's just that Aurors and Arctors have an…uneasy relationship. There are only about, say fifteen _maybe _twenty, Arctors in total, and they tend to think way too much of themselves."

Harry nodded in understanding, "Like Aramis and Hector."

Tonks groaned loudly, "_Oh Merlin, _now _there_ are two more that would benefit from having their egos slaughtered a little."

Harry laughed, "I guess that no one likes them either?"

"Well," Tonks sighed. "Depends. I mean, out of fairness, to their credit and all, they're _pretty good_. Quite possibly the best magical combat students in…at least a decade. Strong, fast, great instincts, hardworking, not to mention politically astute…you know, the Department's dream."

"But…"

"But they know they're good. And they want everyone else to know it. And remember it. _And_ be reminded of it."

Harry shook his head, "The first day I met them, they were trying to stake out their territory or something."

"Typical," Tonks said drily. "The result of all that arrogance is that they're basically giant assholes. Especially to anyone they feel insults them, threatens them - that's you I guess - or is a weak and easy target for them. Which happens to be a lot of people. " She shrugs, "I assume it makes them feel all better about themselves, even though it shows the maturity of a twelve-year-old."

"Doesn't anyone try to put them in their place?"

Tonks sighed again, "Most of their peers and the younger Aurors just try to ignore them. I do at least. Aramis actually tried to ask me out once." She shuddered. "The problem's that in the eyes of all the higher-ups, they can do no wrong. Scrimgeour took it as a matter of _personal pride_ that they 'were discovered' when he was Head of the Auror Office, Gawain Robards - the new Head you know? - absolutely adores them, and I'm pretty sure Amelia Bones is related to Aramis' mother or something. They're kinda like you at Hogwarts Harry."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked defensively.

"Not that you're a jerk or product of nepotism or anything. Just that I hear you tend to get what you want and tend to never get in trouble."

"I don't always get what I want," Harry insisted. "And I _definitely _get in trouble."

"Not in nearly the amount of trouble you'd deserve, hey Harry?" Tonks winked.

Had it been anyone else, Harry would have objected further, but he knew Tonks meant well - and she wasn't completely wrong either - so he simply shot her his most innocent smile.

Tonks laughed, "Well, Aramis and Hector are pretty favored too. They more or less get anything they ask for. Actually, I'm pretty sure they've only ever had one request turned down and that was…" Suddenly, her voice trailed away and the smile on her face disappeared.

"Tonks?" Harry asked.

She swallowed and continued more quietly, "The Sirius Black case. They, um, asked to be put on it two years ago, as second years. Not even Scrimgeour would let them, and he, he really wanted to catc…to catch Sirius you know."

Harry nodded quickly. He tried to think of something to say, a way to change the conversation, but a cold, tense silence had fallen over the pair. Tonks, who'd been so animated over the past hour or so, had regained that sad and exhausted expression she had been wearing the entire summer. She almost looked haunted.

After an awkward minute or two, Tonks cleared her throat, "Hey Harry, I, um, I actually have to go. I'm picking up Ginny from her Aunt Muriel's. She's coming home today. I'll - I'll see you later."

Harry muttered a goodbye and waited until she was far out of hearing before sighing angrily. He felt horrible seeing Tonks in that depressed state. Hermione had told him that she'd been like that the entire summer, refusing to share her thoughts or feelings with anyone in the Order, even when Molly was trying to be especially motherly. The one time Lupin had pressed her, she'd shouted toward him that she neither wanted nor needed anyone's help, before bursting into tears and claiming that none of them could offer any in the first place, because they didn't know what it was like for their ineptitudes to cause someone's death. She was blaming herself for not being able to defeat Bellatrix before she'd killed Sirius, and Harry wished there was something he could do or say that would make her feel even the least bit better, let her know that she wasn't the one that needed to be condemned for what had happened. But he couldn't even imagine bringing up the subject with her. He had no idea what to say in the first place, not when he hadn't come to terms with Sirius' Death himself. Regardless of the work or the Ministry frustrations, his mind would turn to that night in the Department of Mysteries during every spare moment. And even though he knew somewhere deep inside that Dumbledore was right, that he couldn't blame himself for what had happened, he still couldn't let himself off the hook. He didn't even know why Sirius was dead. He didn't even know what the veil Sirius had fallen through _was_, how it had even managed to engulf and destroy an entire human being. He still had no closure or peace of mind himself, and so even though he wanted to, he had no idea how to bring them to Tonks.

Harry was so distracted as he made his way back to the interns' offices that he didn't notice anyone was in the hallway with him until he heard Aramis' rough laughter from behind. He turned around, almost against his better judgment, and saw him and Hector turning the corner a few steps behind Malfoy. They were walking on either side of him and seemed incredibly amused.

"Damn, Malfoy's having a rough day…" Harry muttered under his breath as he walked on, grudgingly feeling a little sorry for Draco but more importantly hoping that Aramis and Hector wouldn't notice and start on him too. Nevertheless, he couldn't help overhearing them.

"Aramis, that has to be a little unfair. At least he's being incredibly modest about it."

"_True_. We never would've found out you're in charge of all that Malfoy money were it not for Percefuck strutting around. Humility. I can respect that."

"Unless of course it's not humility," Hector added. "It could always just be personal doubt. Think of what'll happen if you screw it up Draco."

"The Malfoy coffers at Gringotts empty…"

"All those historic books and maps and documents handed over to the government…"

"The properties given away to new money…"

"And to half-bloods. Or even worse, _Muggleborns._"

"Your children and their children's children and their children's children's _children_ growing up in squalor…"

"All because you screwed up?"

Aramis shook his head, "It'd be enough to keep _me_ quiet with terror."

Although Aramis and Hector seemed far too amused to notice, by then the three of them had caught up to Harry. He could see Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. His usually cold, grey eyes were burning and he was chewing the inside of his cheeks furiously, but he seemed to be doing his best to walk ahead of the two and ignore them.

"Yeah," Aramis continued. "I'm actually going to go with sheer terror instead of humility."

"I mean, the evidence could go either way."

"Perhaps, but from my experience with the Malfoys, I figure pressure makes them squirm."

"Good point. What do you think Draco? How long are you going to be able to stand your family's fortune and history festering like old pumpkin bread before you start going nuts?"

"Oh I think he'll last longer than his father. Old Lucius already seemed a little _gone_. Plus, decency and reputation aren't as nerve wrecking as prison sentences."

"Not to you maybe. And anyway, I don't really care. I'm much more interested in finding out which one of them has the more high-pitched squeal."

Even though he'd think about it quite a few times during the months to come, Harry was never really able to explain why he'd done what he did next. He was still looking at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, and he must have seen something: a rough sigh after a day of jibes, a gritting of the teeth, a sudden twitching of the hand…Whatever it was, in seconds he found himself grabbing Malfoy tightly by the upper arms, struggling to hold him back after he'd suddenly twisted around and lurched angrily toward Hector.

Both the Arctors laughed. "Aw, cute that you're helping him out Potter," Aramis said mockingly.

"Oh bugger off," Harry snapped, pulling Malfoy back again as he tried to wrench himself out of Harry's grasp. Harry suppressed a grunt. Lynx couldn't have been exaggerating much; Malfoy was stronger than he'd have figured.

Fortunately, neither Aramis nor Hector seemed to think the situation warranted their further attention. Still sniggering, they walked down the rest of the hallway and out of sight. As Harry look after them, Draco finally managed to twist free of his grip. "Get your filthy hands off of me," he spat.

"They're _bullies_. It's not worth it; they're just looking for a _reaction_," Harry spat. "I know, because I've been _putting up with you_ for five years."

Malfoy glared at him angrily but didn't retort. As he hurried away angrily, Harry shook his head. "Why even bother?" he muttered to himself.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Harry was certain he never wanted to hear or read a thing about oriental vases again, much less actually see one. He was also convinced that if he ever met the couple that was pulling the Ministry through this joke of an investigation, he'd give them a violent piece of his mind.

"Busy Harry?" Kinglsey asked from the doorway.

Harry shook his head, "More like annoyed. Although we've been having a lot of visitors today."

"It's been slow." Kingsley looked around and nodded toward Malfoy's empty desk, "Where's he?"

Harry shrugged, "Had a run-in with Aramis and Hector earlier, then he ran off somewhere. I don't ask."

"He's on the training floor," Susan said, as she walked through the room to leave and deliver finished files to the Aurors. "Luciana and I saw him…say half an hour ago?"

Kingsley turned to Harry, "How often does he go down there?"

Harry shrugged again, "I told you, I don't ask." When Kingsley shot him a stern look, Harry sighed, "Every day I think?"

Kingsley shook his head, "The Ministry isn't here to provide him a personal gym. He's supposed to be working."

"Um, take it up with him then?" Harry replied awkwardly.

"Oh I will…" Kinglsey said slowly. "Do you mind bringing him back up here for me?"

"Yes!" Harry objected. "Kingsley, I'm buried in these stupid things…no offense."

"Please?" Kingsley asked.

"I'm not his babysitter," Harry insisted.

"Harry…"

Harry sighed angrily, "Fine." He smiled wryly at Kingsley as he left the room, "But you owe me."

When he reached the training room floor, Harry groaned. It was more crowded than he'd ever seen it; most of the Aurors seemed to have put off their physical requirements until that Friday afternoon. Apparently procrastination had no age limit. Harry craned his neck to look for Malfoy among the bustle of bodies.

"Hey, Harry!" Lynx waved him over from the dueling room. "Need someone to work out with?"

Harry smiled with relief as he saw the Auror, "No I actually finished yesterday."

"Nice. By the way, I saw you having lunch with Tonks. How's she be -"

"Um, she's good," Harry interrupted quickly, even though the answer certainly wasn't true. "Hey have you seen Malfoy? I'm looking for him."

If Lynx was upset at having his question about Tonks cut off, he didn't show it. "Oh _yeah_," he replied excitedly. "Martial arts and combat room. He's beating the hell out of a punching bag. Kinda scary to be honest. Personally, I'm better at the more elegant swordfigh -"

"Thanks Lynx," Harry said as he walked away quickly. Fortunately, despite Lynx's relatively frustrating eagerness, he was spot on. It took Harry almost no time to find Malfoy, not only because he was precisely where Lynx had remembered but because there was almost no one standing around him.

"Damn," Harry muttered, quickly realizing why. Draco was apparently doing to the punching back what he'd wanted to do to Percy, Aramis, and Hector earlier that day - and probably to Harry for most of his life - hitting it so quickly and violently that his muscles seemed to be jumping straight out of his upper arms and shoulders and that all the other Aurors walking by were taking a wide circle to avoid getting hit by the large flying mass. It made Harry feel pretty certain that he'd been smart, or at least had accurate instincts, to have held Malfoy back earlier that day; that fight couldn't have ended well.

"Malfoy," Harry groaned.

Draco, his back turned toward him, either didn't hear or didn't pay attention.

"_Malfoy_," Harry emphasized more loudly.

Draco punched forward twice, then kicked the bag fiercely and followed through, taking to the air and twisting around to the other side of the punching bag as it snapped upward and almost hit the ceiling.

"_What_?" he spat fiercely, his face angry beneath a wall of sweat.

"Why are you even friends with Crabbe and Goyle…" Harry muttered.

"Excuse me?"

Harry shook his head, "Nevermind. Kingsley wants to see you."

Draco rolled his eyes and ignored him.

"_Now_," Harry emphasized.

Draco gave the punching back two more hits, then threw off his gloves. "Fine," he hissed, pushing past Harry.

"You're not changing back into your fancy _suit_?" Harry muttered sarcastically.

"Oh I won't be gone long," Draco hissed.

Taken aback that Malfoy had actually heard him, Harry shut up. After all, if Malfoy wanted to get into a fight with Kingsley, he certainly wasn't going to try and dissuade him. A full week of peace had been far too good to be true anyway…

"Is there a problem?" Malfoy asked Kingsley with only the thinnest veneer of respect when they finally returned to the interns' offices. Harry slid behind him to sit at his desk and shrugged toward Susan, who he could see leaning over her desk and closer to the glass door to hear better.

Kingsley smiled thinly, "Apparently so. While I can certainly appreciate, Draco, your…eagerness to complete challenging physical requirements, please remember that your most important job here is t -"

"I finished the case reports this morning," Draco interrupted quickly.

Kingsley swallowed heavily, "Then it would be advisable to help some of your fellow interns with _their_ workloads."

"I have. Did a quarter of Luciana's this morning. I finished all my own yesterday."

Kingsley opened his mouth to reply, but Draco quickly cut him off. "Listen," he said in an annoyed voice, "If you want to go ahead and protect yourselves against my supposed evil influences and nefarious connections by fixing the reports they give out so that actual Aurors handle all the Death Eater cases while we're all stuck with petty robbery, break-ins, and spurious idiocies, _fine_. And while it's not your fault that when the big boys come out to play all the younger copycat children run out after them and need to be properly accounted for, it _certainly _isn't my fault that copying down the exact same four or five statues to deal with those children takes less time than my History of Magic Essays back at Hogwarts. In fact, I'm offended it's not a point of _compliment_ that I'm being so efficient. Now if you'll excuse me…" Almost slamming the door behind him, Malfoy stormed out of the room. Susan whistled in disbelief and retreated back to her seat, whispering something to Luciana.

Kingsley sighed, "If only Dumbledore hadn't said we couldn't fire him for disrespect…"

"Your fixing which cases they give us?" Harry exclaimed. His mind had immediately fixed to that point in the brief argument.

"There might be some…selection involved," Kingsley replied slowly. "Didn't realize it would be that obvious."

"_What_?" Harry could feel the by-now customary anger rising up in his chest again. He grabbed the case report on his desk, "You mean I'm doing this…pottery _bullshit_ for kicks?"

"The Ministry does feel a little trepidation about giving young students access to Death Eater files," Kingsley replied absentmindedly, "Especially to Malfoy."

"_Then why did you pick him_?"

Kingsley didn't reply immediately. "Sorry Harry, one moment," he finally said. "I think I have an idea…"

"What?"

"You - you finish that up there. I'm going to clear something with Bones. Should make everything more bearable for everyone."

"What ar - Kingsley?" Harry shouted after him as he left the room, but it was to no avail. Frustrated, he sat down angrily and hit his fist against the desk. "So much for not being angry," he muttered between gritted teeth. Quickly, he skimmed through his completed case forms, "Dammit they are only the same four or five statues aren't they?"

Frustrated that he hadn't noticed the similarities and infuriated at both the the pointless work and at Kingsley for making him do it, Harry spent the next hour struggling to focus and thinking of all the more productive things Dumbledore could have forced him to do: train to fight Voldemort, prepare to lead others as the 'Chosen One'…The thoughts of course only made him angrier. It was as if despite the few days of relative inner piece, he'd injected himself into the same vicious cycle of intensifying anger and frustration.

As the day wore on and it got closer to the time to leave, Harry got increasingly irritated and inattentive, so much so that he scarcely noticed when Malfoy came back upstairs and that when Kingsley finally reentered the room, a fairly large case file in his hand, Harry would have started to shout at him outright had Kingsley not quickly pushed him out of the conversation to address Malfoy.

"Keeping busy?" he asked calmly. There was a self-assured smile on his face that Draco noticed immediately.

"Selecting the family's charitable contributions," Draco replied slowly. "Of course if that's too much a waste of time I could just sit here and stare at the ceiling. Maybe annoy Potter."

The already angry Harry glared at him, but Kingsley ignored the sarcasm. In the same cool voice he replied, "Ah yes, your family does donate generously…"

"We try…" Draco said, his voice still slow and guarded.

"I assume you're pretty good with money yourself then?"

"Obviously, I'm a _Malfoy_…excuse me, what exactly are you…"

Kingsley smiled widely, "You've heard of Alexander Rizitsky?"

At that, Draco immediately stood up straight, "You _caught _Alexander Rizitsky?"

"Well, the word 'caught'…it might be a little too precise."

Draco raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"He's in Mungo's."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Let me guess, Mafia attack gone wrong?"

"We're suspecting the Russians."

"Only the Ministry of Magic would consider mob-induced physical incapacitation to be their personal victory," Draco shook his head sarcastically.

Kingsley ignored the jibe, "Obviously it would be preferable if we could build enough of a case to arrest him before he's physically capable of leaving the country for one that doesn't extradite…_yet again_. But we're a little short on forensic economists and accountants at the moment."

"The Ministry doesn't _have_ a criminal economic analyst," Draco pointed out.

Kingsley shrugged, "True, but we at least usually have a basic accountant."

"Yeah, one that changes like every few months or year at most. Doesn't everyone hate that job?"

"Well right now _no one_ has that job," Kingsley replied, a slight tinge of impatience appearing in his otherwise calm voice, "The old one was appointed by Scrimgeour to a personal assistant, the newest one was killed by Death Eaters about a month ago, and somehow no one else has volunteered.."

"Oh sure, blame the Death Eaters," Draco snorted. "The problem has nothing to do with the fact that now that Mr. Action and Battle-Oriented Rufus Scrimgeour is Minister, the job wouldn't lead to any higher rung on the bureaucratic ladder."

Kingsley sighed. "I came to offer you the chance to build a case against him yourself," he said coldly. "Thought you'd be interested."

Slowly, a smirk grew on Draco's face. "Let me guess," he began, "you give me Rizitsky, I do no more Auror case files, and Potter can have all the Death Eater cases his pure, Gryffindor heart desires?"

"I'm sitting right here," Harry muttered.

Kingsley smiled, "Something like that."

Draco paused for a moment, then laughed, "You've got yourself a deal."

"Excellent. Here you can have this file…" Kinglsey plopped the case file on Draco's voice. "That's only the most recent one by the way…" Smiling widely, he opened the door and pulled in a tall rolling shelf, filled to capacity with what looked like over-stuffed case files; there had to be at least forty or fifty, enough to keep Malfoy busy for weeks.

Despite his bad mood, Harry had to work hard to suppress a laugh at the surprised look that immediately plastered itself on Draco's face. His mouth had fallen open and he seemed at a genuine loss for words. "Well played," he finally conceded, swallowing heavily.

"Oh I know," Kingsley replied cooly. As he left the room, he clapped Harry on the shoulder, "And I'll make sure that from now on you have something better to read about than robberies."

Harry shook his head in grudging admiration, "Um, thanks."

* * *

"I'm not going to complain about having a boring day at the Ministry ever again," Harry sighed as he and Kingsley entered the dining room of Grimmauld Place.

"Oh did something actually happen?" Tonks asked excitedly. She was sitting at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and had looked lost in thought as they entered. "And I _missed it_?"

Kingsley smiled, "Well, I don't usually like to brag but -"

"He was brilliant," Harry interceded. "Absolutely brilliant. You should have seen Malfoy's face. By the way Kingsley, um, I'm sorry that I was so…rude and angry and…"

"No offense taken Harry," Kingsley said quickly. "It was all quite a horrible idea; Gawain's, not surprisingly. It doesn't save the Aurors much time because they can fill those out in their sleep by now and you weren't learning anything valuable from it eith -"

"_That is NOT your call to make young lady!" _A loud female scream echoed down the stairs and through the room, cutting Kingsley off.

"Is everything ok?" Harry exclaimed.

Tonks groaned, "Molly and Ginny have been at it since I brought her home. It's been almost an hour now."

"What happened?" Kingsley asked, his hand instinctively turning to his wand.

"Oh don't even bother," Tonks said. "It's ridiculous really. Molly's far too over-protective."

"_It IS my call. I'm not a kid anymore; you can't tell me what to wear_!"

Harry was confused. "They're fighting about clothes?"

Tonks rolled her eyes again, "Apparently Aunt Muriel thought Ginny's wardrobe was 'absolutely atrocious' for a growing young lady and took her shopping. From what I can tell, Molly took one look at was she was wearing today and what else the two of them bought and erupted. She thinks the clothes are 'provocative' or something. Which, you know, is sort of ironic because that Aunt Muriel is one, crabby old-fashioned piece of work. Merlin, the look on her face when she saw my hair_…_"

Harry walked up the stairs toward the drawing room, clearly where Molly and Ginny were arguing, and found Ron and Hermione sitting on the steps, just out of sight of the door. They were arguing in furious whispers.

"It really wasn't that bad of an outfit. Have you seen what Fay Dunbar and Lavender wear?"

"She's _fourteen_," Ron snapped. His face red, he was hunched far over on the bottom step, sulking angrily at the idea of his sister wearing anything that could be considered provocative.

"She's almost fifteen," Hermione pointed out a little awkwardly. She seemed uncomfortable fighting about clothing with Ron, but Harry could tell by her rolling eyes and sniping voice that she thought Molly was exaggerating.

"Can't she pick out her own clothes?" Harry asked.

Ron turned to him quickly, "My sister isn't going to go dressing up like a _whore_. And YOU better not be expecting her to."

"I - I don't," Harry shook his head quickly.

"It's just v-neck sweater Ron," Hermione said.

"Oh really? _Just _a sweater? Would you wear it?" Ron snapped.

Hermione blushed lightly, "I'm not saying I'd…_I'd _wear it. I - I don't like v-ne -"

Ron rolled his eyes, "Forget it, of course you wouldn't. You never wear anything suggestive."

Hermione's blush deepened, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing!" Ron said. It was his turn to redden. "I just meant…you wear stuff that's appropriate."

Hermione pursed her lips tightly. "Ron, it's not your place to tell _any_ girl what is or isn't appropriate," she snapped.

"Oh yes it is," Ron replied defensively, his shyness lost almost immediately. "She's my _sister_."

"Which means your supposed to protect and advise her, not tell her what to _wear_."

"I AM protecting her. You know what guys think about girls who wear clothes like that?"

"Tell us Ron," Harry sniggered lightly. "What do we think again?"

Ron blushed again, "I - I -"

Hermione rolled her eyes again and cut him off, "It's a _sweater_."

"And low-rise jeans! And those strappy shirt things -"

"They're called tank tops."

"- And that white, lacy lingerie thing she had in her suitcase?" Ron snapped, struggling to keep his voice down.

Hermione sighed, "Every girl has lingerie Ron."

"Oh yeah," Ron snapped quickly. "How much lace is on _your_ lingerie?"

At that, Hermione turned bright red. "THAT," she said coldly, "is absolutely none of your business."

Harry, starting to blush himself, tried to intercede and diffuse the awkwardness, but before he could say anything, Ginny stomped out of the drawing room. She was wearing a black, low v-neck sweater and a pair of low-rise, bleached jeans, a far cry from her usual Christmas sweaters, t-shirts, old jeans, baggy pants, and school uniforms, even though Harry still couldn't see anything especially wrong with the outfit…

"Hi Harry. Good to see you," Ginny said briskly, her flushed and angry face barely looking at him. Without a word to her brother, she pushed past him and ran up the stairs, slamming the door to her usual room shut.

Hermione sighed, "I'll go talk to her."

"The nerve," Molly muttered, as she looked after her daughter. "I'm going to have a few words with Muriel."

"You should mum," Ron said stubbornly. "She can't go to Hogwarts looking like that."

"Come on Molly," Tonks said. Having heard the noise fade away, she'd come to sit in the drawing room with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "You're overreacting. She looks cute."

"Yeah, she does," Harry muttered absentmindedly. He was lucky that neither Ron nor Molly heard him; they'd both begun to shout again.

* * *

With the dullness and frustration of his first week at the Ministry and the general way his mood was still swinging violently and unexpectedly between being angry, depressed, apathetic, or at an uneasy peace, Harry could scarcely have imagined just how well the next two weeks were going to progress. Back at Grimmauld Place, much to the relief of everyone who lived in or frequently visited the house, Ginny and Molly reached an quiet, restless peace, with Ginny wearing only the old t-shirts, sweaters, and jeans her mother had bought for her, Molly holding back on her threat to throw away everything Aunt Muriel had purchased (except for the quickly confiscated lingerie), and both of them managing to address each other with civility; it may have been shrouded by coldness or disapproval, respectively, or interrupted by short, sarcastic remarks but it was civility nonetheless. Meanwhile, Ron and Hermione seemed to have gotten over the initial shock of hearing Harry's prophecy. They didn't talk to him about the Department of Mysteries or about how he was the Chosen One, but there were no more awkward silences around him, like there had been right after he'd told them. There was no more avoidance of the topic of Voldemort in the newspapers or of questions about the Order's movements and Dumbledore's plans. The latter hadn't returned to Grimmauld Place since he'd left earlier that summer, and his absence was the closest thing to a blight on the general good spirits of the Order. Murders, arson, and disappearances on account of Death Eaters had gone down both in the wizarding and Muggle words, Voldemort himself didn't appear to have been involved in an attack for weeks, and, as Lupin calmly pointed out, Dumbledore knew how to handle his business and would be gone no shorter or no longer than he absolutely had to be.

Even Harry had to agree. The positive atmosphere was rubbing off on him, much to the noticeable relief of Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Molly, and pretty much everyone else in the Order. His mood swings came less frequently. The thoughts of Sirius, while still causing him very painful memories, he could now repress from his daily thoughts. And he'd thoroughly enjoyed his birthday party, for which Molly had taken incredible pains to find time to bake him a three layer cake and knit him a thin, fall sweater and everyone else had somehow managed to get him a thoughtful present. Even Mundungus Fletcher had shown up at Grimmauld to present him with a pair of silver cufflinks; Harry was pretty sure they'd been stolen, and he didn't wear cufflinks in the first place, but at least it was the thought that counted.

And ultimately, Harry had to admit that Dumbledore had been right and that working at the Ministry was helping to calm his mood and focus his mind. After all, the only thing he'd really wanted all year was to be actively engaged in the fight against Voldemort and that sense had only intensified with Sirius' death and his hearing of the prophecy. And while he assumed - and everyone else seemed to expect - that upon his return Dumbledore himself would be working with and training Harry, until the Hogwarts headmaster did return, the Ministry was giving him a chance to be involved. Kingsley had been true to his word. The week after he'd finagled the intern work arrangements again, Harry had stopped receiving the streams of small burglaries and petty crimes. Sure, every once in a while he'd get another, but they served as short bursts of comic relief above all else. He was finally getting real cases that Aurors were dealing with and, despite the apparent bureaucratic uselessness of the Ministry, they were actually proving informative. He was learning that in addition to the Death Eaters themselves, Voldemort and his followers were using proxies to do their dirty work, scavengers, snatchers, crooks, misfits, werewolves...anyone who wasn't pleased with the current order of law and society and who Voldemort could attract, even though he'd never deem them worthy of actually receiving a Dark Mark. A few of them, like Scabior and Greyback, were appearing in more and more reports. And as he was reading, Harry was getting a much better idea of how all these actors operated, which ones of them seemed to be exceptionally strong duelers for example, which of the unknown masked figures were suspected of having ties to government or public offices...He was learning that Bellatrix, Rabastan, Rudolphus, Mulciber, and two Death Eaters referred to as the Carrow siblings had started to carry around blades, like daggers or swords or scimitars, to use alongside their wands and torture their victims. He was learning that the Death Eaters were trying to unleash scores of Dementors on Muggle populations that couldn't see them and that the Ministry had basically lost all control over their activities; Azkaban was being controlled by shifts of top-level Aurors and "secret protective services," which Harry was subtly understanding to mean dragons and centaurs. He was figuring out which of the Aurors seemed to be formidable forces against the Death Eaters, and which were getting in over their head. He was realizing what the Ministry was even able to do, intelligence-wise and tactics-wise, to find and defeat Voldemort's followers; it was sadly although unsurprisingly much less than he knew would be necessary. He was also realizing that Scrimgeour's policies were becoming increasingly militaristic, with more and more liberties being given to the Aurors and Arctors, even those that were still students, to act on behalf of the government against perceived Death Eater threats. The new Minister seemed to have good intentions, but Harry couldn't help wonder how effective those intentions were. Despite the almost unprecedented powers, from what he was reading and hearing said between Ministry members in the halls, cafeteria, and training floor, they had still to capture one definitive Death Eater, a top Voldemort follower like those that had escaped from Azkaban the year before. More and more he was filling out full release forms for witches and wizards that had been wrongfully incarcerated and had somehow managed to prove their innocence, and more and more he was hearing rumors that the current lull in Death Eater activity was preceding something major, like an attempt to break open Azkaban once more. Kinglsey, Tonks, and Moody insisted it was nothing but talk, the gossip of angsty and unprepared new Aurors who were both excited to prove themselves and secretly terrified of what they expected to be coming. But Harry wasn't sure. It seemed that the Ministry, all good intentions aside, was scarcely more effective than it had been during Fudge's times, arriving at scenes long after the Death Eaters had left, and that even though Voldemort and his followers may not have been acting forcefully at the moment, they were still a few steps ahead.

Once in a while, Harry would look across the room at Malfoy and wonder just how much he knew. With his family being who they were, there was no way he didn't have some idea of what the Death Eaters were planning. Yet if he did, he didn't even hint to it. In fact, looking at Draco, one would scarcely guess that a violent war was embroiling the whole of England and particularly the department in which he worked. While during their first week of the internship he had seemed efficient, proficient, but ultimately disinterested and arrogant, he was downright absorbed in the case Kinglsey had handed him. It was, Harry had quickly decided, not only surprising and uncharacteristic, but downright alarming. He had no idea what Alexander Rizitsky had done and why in the world it merited approximately fifty overfilled Department of Law Enforcement files, but whatever kind of monetary fraud was involved obviously engrossed Malfoy to the extreme. He came in early and left late. He could be agitated, even informal in doing the work, letting go of his cooly professional demeanor to mutter under his breath, tap his quill nervously, and pace the floor. His desk was constantly covered with stacks upon stacks of papers, notes, and memos that he was keeping organized with almost anal retentive care. He was no longer pointedly ignoring Harry; instead, he seemed to have more or less forgotten that the Gryffindor was even there. At one point, he'd been so distracted in a particular chart that when he bumped into Harry as he was leaving the room, Draco had actually muttered, "Sorry about that Potter." It had taken Harry about five full minutes to get over the shock. In fact, the closest interactions the two had had to actual conflicts since that first week of work happened when either tried to get books of statues that were stored in cabinets behind the desks of the other - neither was about to concede weakness or defeat by actually asking the other to pass a volume along - and when Malfoy had taken to levitating a large number of his notes in the center of the room so that he could look at them simultaneously. Harry complained that they were distracting and that he could barely walk into or out of the room, Malfoy had retorted with customary sarcasm…what could have turned into a major conflict, however, dissipated almost immediately. Draco had given in and lowered his notes, before surprising Harry the next day by dragging into the room six large chalkboards he'd borrowed from a family friend in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. These were quickly filled by masses of arrows, nodes, and brief comments which Draco would look at for hours, sometimes erasing them furiously and repeatedly, other times copying them down onto parchment. It was those six fully filled chalkboards that Harry found especially disturbing. They symbolized a sort of intellectual excitement Harry tended to associate with only one other person in his acquaintance…

Yet things proceeded in this strange yet unpredictably productive manner for over two weeks, and it wasn't until the second week of August that anything of particular note occurred. Early that Tuesday, as Harry was beginning to read about a string of suspicious Muggle disappearances in the Chelsea area of London, Theodore Nott hurried into the room. His rabbity face was flushed and he appeared almost disheveled, skinny pastel tie askew, shirttails out, and suit obviously un-ironed. Hurrying toward Draco, he slammed both his hands on his desk and quickly spat, "_I don't know any Greek_."

Draco, who had taken his blazer off that morning and was sitting on the desk with his back to the door, shirtsleeves rolled up, feet on his chair, and quill in his mouth, rolling a piece of chalk between his fingers like a cigarette and looking intently at his chalkboards, spit the quill out and shot his friend a confused look. "Okay…I'll remember that the next time I…need someone else to translate my Greek."

Nott rolled his eyes. "_No_," he emphasized. "You don't get it. I don't know any Greek, but I told Tiberius Ogden and his assistant that I did."

Malfoy shook his head, "_Why_?"

"I - I didn't think about it. He was mad at me."

"So you risked getting the old bat _more _mad at you by lying?"

"I was desperate! He was bloody furious."

Draco finally turned around and sat back in his seat, "What exactly did you do?"

Nott sighed and rolled his eyes. "I may have not shown up yesterday," he replied impatiently. "When the International Magical Trading Standards Body was meeting with huge delegations from both Venice and Sicily…and I may have had a lot of work that was assigned which, um, well which didn't get done in time."

Draco shook his head slowly, "I reiterate: _WHY_?"

Nott rolled his eyes and spoke even more quickly, "You remember that blonde I was flirting with on Sunday?"

"The one with the really large breasts?"

"Um, yeah," Nott muttered. "We may have…had a little too much fun."

Draco threw his head back and clapped, "You got too drunk, hungover, and sexually satisfied to get up for work…"

"_It's not funny_," Nott emphasized. "I'm in a shitload of trouble." He sighed, "What were you doing on Sunday night anyway?"

Draco smirked widely, "Twins. Misty and Heather. You know, I think I'm developing this theory about redhea -"

"Yes, we get it, you're a stud, congratulations." Nott interrupted. "_Now help me_."

"Oh? What do you expect me to do?" Draco said, succeeding in producing a voice that was simultaneously quite innocent and unmistakably mocking.

Nott sighed in frustration, "Come on Malfoy, I know you know Greek. I only need to translate _one_ letter…"

Draco shook his head slowly, "I don't know Theodore….I'm really rusty. And my agriculture and trade vocabulary is…modest at best and nonexis- "

"_YOU WANT ME TO BEG DRACO, I'LL BEG_," Nott shouted in exasperation. Harry repressed a snort. Looking at the two in front of him and hearing them interact, Harry could understand why, if true, Nott would hate Malfoy. There was a tone of arrogance and sarcasm in almost every word Draco directed to Nott, as if he not only was convinced that he was a vastly superior human specimen but also expected Nott to know it and to respect the difference. Even as they stood next to each other, the stringy, round-faced boy seemed to shrink in front of Malfoy's casual, confident slouch, sharply cut facial features, and greater height. And add to all that the story about Nott's mother…

Draco rolled his eyes, "You're no fun when you're desperate. Hand it over. And get yourself together, you look bloody awful."

"Oh thank you Merlin," Nott breathed.

"I hate that expression," Draco muttered, as he took out a piece of parchment and began translating what Nott had given him. "I strongly, _strongly_ doubt that Merlin would give a damn about the degree of your incompetence in international relations."

Nott ignored the insult. After breathing a few signs of relief and stretching in a fairly loud and distracting fashion - Harry was tempted to agitate him further by telling him to quiet down, but decided that the argument which would certainly ensue wouldn't be worth the temporary amusement - Nott looked over Draco's shoulder at the notes that were scribbled across his six chalkboards. "Damn," he said, as he tucked his shirt in and tried to fix his tie, "What are you doing?"

"Alexander Rizitsky," Draco muttered distractedly. "Hey, have you thought of what might happen if I translate this incorrectly? Intentionally of course."

"You wouldn't," Nott said quickly. "_The _Alexander Rizitsky? That Russian guy who's run basically every type of financial fraud and investment scheme known to man?"

"Precisely," Draco replied.

"Nice," Nott said somewhat grudgingly, "How'd you get the case?"

"Long story," Draco laughed. "You know, I really hope this isn't all you've been doing this summer. It's dull as hell. I mean, the _olive trade_?"

"At least I don't just draw dots and arrows with chalk like a seven year old," Nott snapped defensively.

Draco paused. "First, I have power over three-fourths of the future outcome of your brief internship here in my hand. Don't tempt me," he said in annoyance. "Second, I'm not 'just drawing dots and arrows.' I'm tracing the money. Literally. The visuals just help."

"Wait, tracing the money? Like, all of it?" Nott asked.

"Everything the Ministry knows about," Draco said, turning back to the translation. "Every investment, every transaction, every deposit into every account…"

"Can you…do that?"

"I said I was trying to; I didn't say it was easy."

"The guy's been doing this for years though. Hasn't the Ministry tried to get him on _something_ for…"

"For a good while," Draco supplied. "But the longevity isn't the genius of it." He paused again and pointed at the stacks of papers around him, "Although the fact that the Ministry cycles new accountants and economists through this department like Crabbe and Goyle cycle favorite flavors of scones is a bit of a logistical hassle."

"Nice," Nott muttered.

"But see, Rizitsky's _genius_ is in precisely _what_ he does. The man doesn't just run schemes…he has frauds _within_ frauds…invisible accounts, "missing" witnesses, savings that stay "dead" for years until they reappear…Ponzi schemes in pyramid schemes that are part of an even larger, other Ponzi schemes. The shtick of it all is that he makes sure anything you _might_ trace leads to a dead end or to something you can't _prove_ or to something you can't legally use or obtain to condemn him. It's almost - _almost_ - impenetrable."

"But you're going to succeed…with dots and arrows?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "They're organizational tools, drop it. I'm going to succeed because I'm looking at _everything_ and I'm tracing it _all_ back from the very beginning. Or at least from what beginning the Ministry has recorded, which surprisingly and somewhat disturbingly seems pretty accurate. Believe it or not, I'm actually quite far along."

Nott grunted, seemingly unconvinced. "So let me guess," he began, looking more carefully at Draco's notes, "The arrows are obviously transactions. The closed dots are…accounts or individuals, destinations that is. And the open circles?"

"Points _from which_ the money could have been diverted in a number of different ways. Uncertainties you know?"

"Ah. And how do you know where to go from those?"

Draco smirked, "Intuition. You've got to think about what move would be smartest, what would be hardest for anyone else to decipher…He's invented a few _new_ schemes I've been trying to figure out." He shrugged, "It's mostly guess and check. For example, I'm thinking the top part of that fourth board is wrong, which basically means that most of the fifth board and the entire sixth board are wrong too…doesn't match up with the numbers from the late 80s and I know he had a hit taken out on him by the Italians in '87 that was rescinded five months later, so I have to account for another big payoff there."

"I see…" Nott replied slowly and sarcastically.

"What can I say, I have some experience."

At that, Nott laughed, "Actually, should you even be looking at any of this? Isn't there a…conflict of interest somewhere?"

"Why, because my family handles investments as well?"

Nott grunted in reply.

"Well it's not like we complete with Rizitsky."

"Of course you compete," Nott objected.

Draco rolled his eyes, "It's not like we actually compete in the same market."

"Ahh…you mean because your family doesn't issue securities or plain hard cash out of a desire to magnify an already immeasurable amount of wealth but rather to promote socially and politically certain industries in which you have a vested personal or professional interest and to retain influence and relevance across a wide variety of modern spheres AND therefore you can pick and choose all your clients and projects at your elitist will?"

"Wow," Draco breathed. "So much well-rehearsed cynicism…"

"I am merely an agent of the truth."

Draco rolled his eyes, "I don't remember you speaking the truth in that kind of negative tone when it comes to our owning most of Cornish Pixie."

Nott smiled, "That's because your owning most of Cornish Pixie is probably one of the best parts of our friendship."

"Glad to know I bring something to the table."

Nott sniggered and continued to look at the complicated chalk notes as he waited for Draco to finish. "You know Malfoy" he said after a few minutes of silence, "sometimes I forget that you're actually smart."

Draco snorted, "I'll take that as a compliment. And _you_ can take _this_. One lovely, _riveting_ letter about the olive and cheese trade. Sorry that I didn't try to imitate your handwriting; you can tell Ogden you were having an especially good day."

Nott ignored the sarcasm and grabbed the translation and original quickly, "I owe you one."

"Oh trust me, I'll remind you," Malfoy shouted after him as he left the room.

"Unbelievable," Harry muttered.

"What was that Potter?" Draco snapped, once again surprisingly hearing the low mumble.

Harry couldn't help himself. "You're…you're _unbelievably_ _like_ Hermione," Harry shook his head, then added quickly. "You know, if we ignore the smugness and offensive sarcasm."

Draco's face froze. "And here I am, straining myself to be civil…" he replied coldly, before turning back to his work.

"It's _true_," Harry insisted, pointing vaguely to all the notes behind Draco, "I'm pretty sure I've never seen anyone else _this_ engrossed in…_research_."

Draco rolled his eyes and ignored him.

Still, Harry didn't want to let it go; this had been bugging him since the very first day of their internship. "What? It's a compliment. Come on Malfoy, you're being far too modest."

Sighing angrily, Draco finally looked up. "Let me get this straight Potter…are you trying to ask me why I'm not more _Granger-esque_?"

"No…yes…sort of." Harry shook his head quickly, "That's part of it, start from there."

Malfoy snorted and pushed aside a few papers, "You know, this might be interesting. I'll humor you and answer your question with another: _Why the hell would anyone want to be like Granger_?"

"She's brilliant!" Harry said defensively.

Draco rolled his eyes, "She's _book-smart_."

"Says the guy who apparently knows Greek."

"In addition to Spanish, French, German, and about six others, but I don't base my dreams, reputation, and self-worth on academic proficiency," Draco retorted quickly.

"She does no -"

"_Please_," Malfoy interrupted. "The constant studying? The incessant, maddening need to prove to _everyone_ just how much she's stuffed into that brain of hers? It's _who she is_. It's _what she does_. It's like - her - her first love and her childhood comfort blanket both encompassed by the same entity. In fact if it weren't for the fact that being friends with you is akin to entering a contractual obligation to risk one's life on a regular basis, that woman would barely recognize what the outside of the library _looks like_."

Harry could feel his anger rising, "Hermi -"

"AND - " Malfoy wasn't finished, "_AND_, you know what? One day she's going to look up from whatever encyclopedia she has her fucking nose stuck to and realize that all the rest of the world's moved on."

"What's that even supposed to mean?" Harry objected.

"It means," Draco snapped, "that while Granger invests all her energy in reading about how millions of people have people lived _their_ lives, she's not going to have any idea about how to actually live _hers_."

"And _you_ know things about life?"

"I know it's not about sucking up to Flitwick and McGonagall."

Harry rolled his eyes, "No it's about sucking up to Snape."

"It's about _doing things_, meeting people, going places, _enjoying yourself_. Damn, you're right: if I wanted to, I probably _could_ give Granger a run for her little bookworm money, but why should I bother?" Draco laughed, "Come on Potter, you of all people know how short life is. Forgive me if I don't give a shit about who I _could_ become and just squeeze every ounce of hedonism I can from it."

Harry shook his head slowly. "Yeah, life _is_ short," he said with some contempt, "That's why you should use it to make a difference for others."

Draco snorted, "Gryffindor self-sacrifice: so unappealing on so many levels." With that, he turned back around to face his notes, as if Harry needed any indication that the conversation was over.

* * *

Still, disbelief and disgust aside, Harry had to admit that was probably the most authentic conversation he'd had with Malfoy since, well, ever. Given the general rate at which they'd been interacting that summer, he half expected it was going to be the last exchange of words they'd have at all, at least until they returned to Hogwarts. Nor would it have surprised him if Malfoy amplified his usual immaturity following the comparison to Hermione. However, he remained as taciturn and as engrossed in the Rizitsky files as ever, such that when Kingsley came to check on them that Friday and Draco actually interrupted himself to look up and address him, Harry was almost shocked.

"Just the man I wanted to see," Draco smirked.

"No problems I hope?" Kingsley replied patiently.

"None whatsoever. In fact, I'm basically finished."

Kingsley's eyebrows shot up, "Finished? It's been three weeks."

"Yes?" Draco said in mock confusion. "Ohhh...you mean it's _only_ been three weeks. See what can be accomplished when you get the right person to look at things in an organized and focused manner?"

Kingsley pursed his lips and didn't reply.

"Granted," Draco conceded, "I do have quite a bit left to write down, a few loose ends to tie up...couple hundred thousand here, couple hundred thousand there...but I'm finished with the most important things. Biggest transactions and lines of credit and all.

When he didn't continue, Kingsley had to give in, "And...?"

"Well I have good news and bad news."

"Alright. Good news."

"Splendid, I was hoping you'd say that."

"Then let's hear the bad news first," Kingsley replied drily.

Draco paused, "Well, the bad news doesn't make much sense without the good news."

"_Just explain_," Kingsley said strictly, his voice yet again betraying his impatience with Malfoy's attitude.

Draco smirked and picked up a large stack of pieces of parchment that had been accumulating on the floor next to his desk over the weeks. "I'm writing up what I've found in a comprehensive report," he began. "And once I'm completely done, you're going to having Alexander Rizitsky on a _silver platter_."

Kingsley's mouth almost fell open, "You're kidding?"

"Not in the least. You give this to any basic prosecutor or Arctor and they'll have more than enough evidence to convict. Real evidence too: millions of galleons being moved around illegally, business connections that _I_ would be ashamed of…Not to mention you could probably use this stuff to get some of those conspirators as well and, surprisingly enough, _not_ just the ones that are mobsters."

"I didn't actually think you'd…" Kingsley shook his head, "How did you pull it off?"

"Inherited financial sense, good intuition, and general awesomeness." He leaned back in his seat with a smirk of self-satisfaction that was almost obscene, "You're welcome."

"What's the bad news?" Kingsley asked slowly, ignoring the shower of self-praise.

At that, Draco threw his head back and laughed loudly, "_You can't use any of it._"

"_What_?"

"Oh come on, you must be joking. Lists of his investments, his properties, his trading history, his _personal vacation expenditures_…This is the kind of information the Ministry can't legally obtain unless they've launched a full-scale investigation, and you never have on Rizitsky because you've never had enough evidence to justify one. All this stuff is illegal."

Kinglsey coughed, "The Ministry doesn't collect ille -"

Draco rolled his eyes and held up a small red and white piece of paper, "A history of deposits and withdrawals from his Swiss bank accounts? Trust me, if it was so easy for a government to get that information, _my family wouldn't have a Swiss bank account_."

"Point taken," Kingsley conceded grudgingly.

"Now…if you try to put Rizitsky on trial, the Wizengamot will have to throw all this stuff out, and on the off chance you find another reason to indict him - which is pretty small by the way because, you know, I have a life other than cleaning up your financial messes - there's a pretty good chance you won't be able to re-introduce it because you can't really _prove _it isn't information that you had _formerly_ obtained illegally…and there's goes decades of proof of financial fraud."

Kingsley groaned and shook his head slowly. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words on what had obviously been a huge oversight from whoever used to be in charge of the investigation. Harry, who'd been trying to keep up with the conversation, muttered, "Seems like a Catch-22."

"I'm going to ignore what I assume is some Muggle cultural, historical, or literary reference," Draco snapped.

"Literary," he explained, making a mental note to remember that Malfoy's hearing was freakishly acute. Both Kingsley and Malfoy shot him somewhat confused looks, so he added, "It was Dudley's summer reading assignment…to his annoyanc…never mind."

Kingsley finally found his voice, "That is indeed…unfortunate."

"Sucks doesn't it?" Draco laughed again. "FORTUNATELY, I do have a possible solution."

"Which of course you couldn't mention until now," Kingsley groaned again.

"Well, the phrase 'I have good news, bad news, and mildly-positive news' doesn't have the same ring to it."

"_Malfoy_…" Kingsley warned.

Draco rolled his eyes, "See, while the Ministry doesn't have easy access to _this_ information, it does, thanks to its acute sense of paranoia, have almost unlimited access to anything done with its _own funds_."

Kinglsey cleared his throat, "The Ministry doesn't use outside investors to subsidize its projects."

"_Please_," Draco exclaimed. "If the Ministry has contracts with Malfoy Investments, it has contracts with Rizitsky. God knows, there are enough ventures you try to sell us that we turn down."

"That's because your family invests based on how much they like the blood-status of the client, not based on the merits of their proposals," Kingsley said angrily, deciding that any attempt to maintain the official Ministry talking points on the subject would be more trouble than it would be worth.

"What is it with everyone bashing Malfoy Investments this week?" Draco objected. "First of all, I would remind you that we exhibit a degree of legality and transparency that is almost _unmatched_ in the financial sphere -"

"Only because you don't need the money, I'm sure," Kingsley quipped calmly. Harry laughed.

"Secondly," Draco ignored him, "A bad idea is a bad idea. I mean, broom-based navigational systems? Who in the world wants to their broomstick to shout to them 'turn left, turn right, five minutes to Surrey?' It's like something Muggles would put in their cars."

"I'm pretty sure they're developing those," Harry supplied.

He clammed up quickly as Kingsley shot him a frustrated look. "Just get on with it Malfoy. I shouldn't have encouraged you."

"Well as I was saying…" Draco continued in a wounded tone of voice, "I suspect that a lot of the missing transactions I've been seeing, a lot the uncertainties, a lot of the guesses I've been making, they're due to the money Rizitsky's received from the government. Now, since you can actually follow that money legally, if you find it's been involved in a fraudulent transaction or suspicious investment, then you'll have sufficient cause to have obtained the rest of _this_ information and _then _you can use it."

"But we'll still have gathered it beforehand…"

Draco shrugged, "Yeah. But who's going to know?"

Kingsley paused as Draco smugly leaned back again to bask in his cleverness. Then he pursed his lips, "Excellent job Draco. Genuinely, genuinely impressive."

"Well thank you."

"Your contribution will be well noted by the Ministry."

"Of course."

"And appreciated."

"I'm only doing my civic duty."

Kingsley took a deep breath, "But you're not getting access to the Ministry financial records."

The fake appreciation fell off Malfoy's face immediately. "Oh come on," he whined, in a voice that was far more reminiscent of the Draco that Harry knew from school. "What's the worst I could possibly do?"

"Do you really have to ask?" Kingsley replied calmly.

"It's not like I'm going to funnel your wage reports to the Death Eate -"

Kingsley cut him off, "Ministry financial records are strictly in the possession of the Ministry of Magic and his support staff. An employee from that office can handle the remainder of this case."

Draco sighed, "Fine. I'm sure that, having heard all you have today, you are perfectly judicious in trusting this matter once again to the expertise of Ministry financial crimes enforcement." He coughed, "By the way, when Rizitsky leaves Mungo's and _doesn't_ get arrested, where do you think he's going to go? I suppose Russia's temporarily out…What about the United Arab Emirates? They don't extradite to us and he has three penthouses there…"

Kingsley pursed his lips again and didn't reply. As he left the room, Draco sniggered.

"You seem especially smug after that last part…" Harry pointed out.

"Oh trust me, I'll get what I need Potter," Draco replied, too pleased with himself to even retort angrily.

And he was right. A few hours later, Kingsley returned to the room with a large black key. He held it close to his chest as he explained, "The file room is on Level One. Get off the lift, take the two first lefts, down the long hall, right, and one more left. If anyone asks, tell them who you are and show them the key. If you get lost, find Percy Weasley."

"I think I'll be good," Malfoy said smoothly as he took the key from Kingsley's hand with an expression of eagerness on his face that Harry almost felt compelled to warn someone about.

"You are _very_ fortunate Scrimgeour's brother-in-law lost almost everything he owned in one of Rizitsky's schemes…"

"Really? I've never heard that being gossiped about in any social circles whatsoever," Malfoy said sarcastically.

Kingsley sighed. "Wait," he said, grabbing Draco's arm before he could rush out of the room to rummage through the Ministry's finances. "You can start tomorrow." Motioning to Susan and Luciana to enter the other room, he continued, "Practical experiences alongside actual Aurors have traditionally been important components of this internship. Unfortunately, given the nature of the security challenges we are facing today, this goal has been more difficult to achieve this year."

"You mean that you think Potter's going to get killed and that I'm going to help kill him," Draco said drily.

Kingsley turned to him sharply, "You've had a chance to exercise your hubris today Malfoy. Do try and remember you're still an intern here."

Draco pursed his lips unapologetically but allowed Kingsley to continue, "There has, however, been an incident today that does not appear to be _directly_ related to the present Death Eater activity and in any case that the Aurors feel has been sufficiently contained for the four of you to see in person. And I hope that it will give you an idea not only of what, other than direct combat, Aurors often deal with, but of…of what this war is really going to mean for hundreds of people."

Harry felt the pit in his stomach growing as Kingsley enumerated a few official Ministry safety procedures and then led them through the halls of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In contrast, Luciana and Susan seemed almost excited. Whatever Kingsley may have said, they all believed that what they were about to see was somehow connected to Death Eater activity; everything now was. Neither of the girls had ever seen in person the kinds of things they'd been reading and writing about for the past few weeks. Luciana herself knew very little about the Death Eaters; apparently the news of Lord Voldemort's return was ingraining itself only slowly into the consciousnesses of those on the continent. But Harry couldn't think of this as an educational exercise, even if he had wanted to. It wasn't a DA meeting, it was real life, and he braced himself for what he knew was going to be a disturbing sight.

"Wait here," Kingsley said, walking away to talk to an older Auror. He had led them into a long thin room that appeared to be a mini-Atrium; fireplaces lined both walls, a pile of throwaway objects in one corner seemed to serve as a Portkey repository, and witches and wizards were entering and exiting quickly and with purpose. Smaller stations filled the center of the room, where it looked like different Ministry officials were servicing short-term medical treatment, maps, even owl services.

"This must be where they send Aurors out on assignments," Susan said breathlessly.

"Makes sense, I imagine it would be very difficult to leave in and out of that hectic, press-filled room upstairs in emergencies," Luciana said.

Susan motioned to Harry to walk around with them, but he shook his head quickly.

Behind him, Malfoy sniggered. Having sat down on a ledge next to the wall, he was shaking his head slowly.

"What?" Harry snapped toward him.

Draco had been silent since Kingsley had announced the afternoon's destination, registering little more than a blank expression as the Auror was speaking and leading them through the Ministry. Still, he couldn't help himself, "It's just so typical for the Ministry to think that a well-staffed enter and exit point will actually give them a tangible strategic advantage. They never do cease to amuse me."

To himself, Harry had to admit he agreed, but he wasn't about to tell Malfoy that. "Oh I think it's sensible," Harry replied coldly. "Systematic action for systematic murderers."

Draco snorted, "With that mentality no wonder your lot's losing."

Harry rolled his eyes and didn't respond, but Malfoy continued.

"They're not killing machines Potter," he insisted. "They're not monolithic caricatures of evil. Beneath the cruelty and the insensitivity and the unwavering pursuit of ambition and objectives at all costs, after the...the crass disregard for life, so to say...underneath the masks…they're still _human_. With the same strengths and frailties that exist in all humans. They still feel hurt. They can still feel regret. They can still love."

Harry laughed in disbelief.

Unfazed, Draco continued, "The Carrow siblings love each other. My mother loves my father - not that I'm admitting there's any veracity to the accusations against him of course. Rodolphus and Rabastan love Bellatrix."

"And who does Bellatrix love?" Harry spat harshly.

"Oh that's easy. _Him_. Passionately, ardently, _obsessively…_There's nothing in the world she wouldn't do for him, nothing she wouldn't give up, nowhere she wouldn't go." He smirked, "It's knowing and understanding things like that which gives you the _real_ strategic advantages. After all Potter, I'm sure you remember how effective it was for the Dark Lord to know whom _you_ loved most."

Harry felt the blood rise to his head at the callous allusion to Sirius. He whipped out his wand and took a step forward.

Malfoy laughed softly, but nevertheless took out his own wand, "Tut, tut Potter. I think I've hit a nerve."

In fact, every nerve in Harry's body was telling him to curse Malfoy. He might have been able to control some of the memories of what had happened in the Department of Mysteries, but they still hurt bitterly, and Malfoy was one of the last people with the right to mock them. It would be some small satisfaction too, punishing the man whose father had led the Death Eaters in the Hall of Prophecy and whose aunt had killed Sirius.

Still, in the back of his mind he remembered what both Dumbledore and Hermione had been trying to tell him about his anger and hatred. Controlling it, letting go...it made him different from Voldemort. And he'd been doing so well...Swallowing heavily, he lowered his wand and spat, "By your logic, even Voldemort has an understandable human soul."

This time, Draco kept the victorious smirk to a minimum. "Well," he began. "He's different, I'll give you that. He's torn his soul apart beyond all recognition."

"If he has, then all the Death Eaters have," Harry said coldly. "With all they've done…they're exactly like him."

Draco laughed softly, "If you really believe that Potter, if you _can't_ _tell there's a difference_…you're in even more trouble than you'd think."

Harry furrowed his brows, but before he could ask Malfoy what he meant, Kingsley had returned with an old bottle in his hand. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Draco replied cooly. "Potter and I just have…philosophical differences."

Kingsley was looking at Harry carefully, reading the anger that was still written all over his flushed face. "It's fine," Harry muttered. "Don't worry about it."

"Alright…" Kingsley replied slowly, motioning to Susan and Luciana as he continued to cast his eyes keenly between Draco and Harry. "We're going to travel by Portkey since none of you can Apparate and the fireplaces are all in use. If you feel dizzy after landing, it's normal."

Harry and the others placed a finger on the wine bottle Kingsley held out. He felt the familiar pull beneath his navel, the floor spun away beneath him, and in seconds his feet landed with a thud on a sweep of grass. Next to him, Luciana stumbled over and grabbed Draco's arm. "I can't wait until we can Apparate," Susan muttered.

Harry nodded in absentminded agreement, then looked around. They seemed to be in the English countryside, standing in a field far behind a large farmhouse. The ground was wet with rain, and sprinkled among the dirt and grass were irregular white and beige forms. Harry bent down to look at them more closely. They were chicken bones.

"Harry," Tonks said grimly as she ran up to them. "Good to have you here."

"Ah, cousin Nymphadora…" Draco gave her a sarcastic and unprompted greeting.

Tonks cringed at the sound of her first name, but she ignored him, "You've got to look at this Kingsley. I've never seen anything like it."

Kingsley motioned for the interns to listen carefully and follow them. "Williamson said it was a werewolf attack?"

"He and Savage think so. I don't. Neither does Dawlish. Werewolves don't do this."

"From what I've been reading, there's not a lot that at least one of them wouldn't do," Harry supplied eagerly. "I forget the name, Gre, Grae-"

"Greyback," Tonks completed, shaking her head. "And true, but I don't think this is him."

"Oh my God!" Susan, who had been first behind Kingsley and Tonks, shrieked and jumped backwards.

Harry hurried forward and felt his stomach drop as he saw what had shocked her. The Ministry wizards were crowding around the bodies of a man and a woman, or rather what remained of them. Something had torn large pieces of flesh straight off much of their frames, leaving behind nothing but bones and pools of congealed blood. The skin and muscle that remained on their bodies was battered to a deep purple. The man's face had been scratched away beyond recognition, and what remained of the woman's back and upper shoulders, bare beneath the few threads of clothing that remained, was punctured with hundreds of small, bee-stinger like barbs. Their fronts, however, were perhaps most horrifying. From the dark pieces of viscera that lay on the ground, it looked like the couple had been disemboweled, and that whatever had attacked them had also tried to feed on the entrails. He took a deep breath to push away the nausea.

"Che dio ci aiuti," Luciana breathed.

"Se c'è un Dio, non credo che lui ti ascolta," Draco mumbled in reply.

There was an especially cold and unsettled note to his normally controlled voice, and Harry forced himself to tear away from the gruesome scene and look at him. Malfoy's face had paled dramatically. It wasn't just detached, it wasn't just disgusted, it wasn't even angry. With his jaw clenched and his eyes staring forward unblinkingly, Draco looked simultaneously like he was bracing himself against a punch to his own a gut and like he was lost in deep, conflicting thought. Harry would never have guessed the Slytherin could look that disturbed.

"How could you defend them?" Harry whispered in a low voice, so that Draco alone could hear. "People who can do something like this, order it…Are you so sure about how much humanity they have?"

"Shut up Potter," Malfoy said dully.

* * *

Their time in that field took all afternoon and passed into early evening. Kingsley told Tonks and Dawlish to classify the scene as a werewolf attack. "I don't think it is either," he had said, "but while we investigate, we should register it as something tangible, something that can be understood and expected."

As Aurors and other Ministry wizards wandered around the scene, taking notes on every detail and shielding it from Muggles, Harry felt his impression reinforced, that the Ministry of Magic was far better at cleaning up after an incident than preventing it or catching the ones responsible. They were organized, meticulous…but that man and that woman were still dead and they still had no idea what killed them.

It was the look on Malfoy's face that increasingly interested Harry as the day wore on. Even after hours had passed since they'd first set eyes on the couple, even as he was obviously avoiding to look toward them, that dead, lost-in-thought look was still on his face. And he didn't say a single word, not one quip, not one sarcastic insult directed toward the Ministry. Harry couldn't help but be suspicious. There was something more than odd or eccentric or horrified in the way he was acting.

Kingsley stayed at the scene that night, and it was Tonks who took the interns back to the Ministry. Luciana and Susan headed quietly for home. Malfoy walked back toward the interns' offices, mumbling about having something to finish.

"I'm so ready to sit down and eat something…and just talk to Molly," Tonks said.

Harry was still looking after Malfoy, "Um Tonks. I…I actually have some files that a few Aurors insisted I get back to them by tomorrow morning. I think I should probably stay and finish right?"

"Yeah…yeah you should…" Tonks groaned. "I'm sorry Harry; I shouldn't whine. I've been there, I understand. I guess I'll just…find some work to do until you're done."

"Oh, you don't have to. You were out there all day Tonks; you look exhausted. Go back to Grimmauld Place. I'll be fine."

Tonks hesitated, "I really shouldn't Harry."

"I'm only going to be sitting in that office," Harry insisted. "No one's going to attack me. And it shouldn't take _that_ long."

"They'll be furious if I leave you…I'm just going to have to come back."

"Tell them Kingsley's watching me," Harry supplied. "He's going to be busy for a while. By the time they find out, I'll be back and safe." He smiled, "I know how to get there without walking the streets of London you know? Floo Powder into the empty apartment across the street."

Tonks looked at him skeptically for a while. Then she sighed, "Alright…Just be _really careful_ Harry."

"Definitely," he assured her.

"I owe you_."_

"Not at all." He shook his head as he walked away. A part of him felt bad for lying to Tonks and fooling her into leaving him alone. But there was something very wrong with the way Malfoy was acting, and he needed to find out what. Harry didn't trust him, especially not almost alone at night in the Ministry. He couldn't shake the feeling…

Entering his office under the pretext of grabbing something he'd forgotten, Harry waited until Malfoy did come in and start working. The expression on his face hadn't changed. Harry tried to ask him where he'd been, but Malfoy only rolled his eyes and ignored him.

Even more troubled, Harry left the room and hid behind a corner in sight of the door, wishing he had his Invisibility Cloak with him. He waited for Malfoy to leave.

An hour passed, then an hour more. Harry's legs began to hurt. He looked at his watch anxiously; sooner rather than later, the Order was going to get worried and come after him. Maybe Malfoy wasn't going to do anything, other than fulfill an urge to work especially late. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Close to midnight, however, Harry's patience was rewarded. Malfoy left the room and locked it, then looked around the hall with the same thoughtful expression that kept bothering Harry. He walked away, thankfully in Harry's opposite direction, and when he turned the corner, Harry followed quickly.

He always stayed a corner or two, or a long hallways' length, behind Malfoy, walking as quietly as possible. It helped that he knew this part of the Ministry well by now and that Draco was moving quickly and purposely. He didn't turn around once, not even as he waiting for the lifts.

The second the doors to the lifts shut and Malfoy was out of sight, Harry ran forward and looked at the number. If Malfoy stopped at Level 8, he was just leaving the Ministry. But if he stopped anywhere else…

Harry tapped his foot impatiently. Then he felt his stomach sink. Malfoy _hadn't_ stopped at the Atrium. He'd gone down one more floor, to the Department of Mysteries.

It was quite possibly the last place in the world Harry wanted to go. He was still seeing it in his nightmares; he was using all his energy to avoid thinking about it obsessively, like he had earlier that summer. What had happened there, what _he'd_ let happen…

Harry shook his head quickly. It was stupid. The more he stood there feeling sorry for himself, the longer Malfoy had to pull off whatever he was plotting. He pounded the button for the lift. It felt like hours until it came up and took him down to the ninth level. By the time the doors opened, there was no one, not a guard or Unspeakable, in sight. To Harry, however, it didn't matter. There was only one place Malfoy would have a vested interest in seeing down there.

Forgoing quiet, Harry ran down the plain corridor that faced the lift, through the black door, and into the Entrance Chamber. He tried to remember where they'd gone that spring, but it wasn't working. He just picked a door and went through, hoping the memories would come back to him.

As time went on however, Harry felt increasingly frustrated. He cursed inwardly as he turned another corner. The hallways of the Department of Mysteries seemed even more twisted than they had a few months ago. And without the noises of a battle, they seemed far longer and wider too. He shook his head as he imagined the disapproving expression Hermione would be wearing on her face if she knew what he was doing and walked more quickly. He raced down the hall, turned another corner, cursed aloud this time, turned yet again, and finally stopped short. There was a glass door in front of him, beyond which he could see familiar regularly arranged rows of shelves. It was a side entrance to the Hall of Prophecy.

Harry grimaced as he opened the door. He hadn't realized just how many prophecies they'd broken. Scarcely any were still on the shelves. The floor was covered in small shards of glass; every so often a pile of larger pieces had been collected, disturbing the now shiny dark marble floor. That was the extent of the Ministry's cleanup efforts. As he entered the room, he tried not making any noise, but the glass crunched loudly under the barest pressure from his foot. He momentarily considered a silencing charm, but there wasn't any time.

Instead, Harry walked quickly – and noisily – across the room and looked down the rows of shelves. There wasn't a sign of Malfoy anywhere. He looked at the row number: 13. If Draco had come in here, he would have probably tried to go straight to where Harry's prophecy had been kept. Harry had no doubt that he knew where it was; he didn't believe the "I haven't met any Death Eaters" claim for a second. He hurried down the length of the room - past 3, 2, 1, 0, 00 - and turned around quickly to walk back up the other side toward row 97.

But to his surprise, Malfoy was right there, sitting casually at the end of the hall, one elbow on his knee, staring intently at a large silver and crystal cabinet that looked out of place in the room of towering shelves.

"Really Potter," he said drily, without looking at him, "I knew it would be easy to lose you; I had no idea it would be so efficient. You took ages to get here."

Harry furrowed his brow slightly, "You knew I w - "

"You breathe too loudly," he interrupted.

Harry ignored his words. "Why are you here Malfoy?"

"Why are you?" Draco replied in a bored voice, no sarcasm, no mocking. "Neither of us have any reason to be, neither of us have permission to be…and believe it or not Potter you don't have any implicit right to police me."

He still hadn't taken his eyes off the cabinet. Harry looked over at it. The body was made of silver with an elaborate pattern of moons and stars carved in. There was a crystal window that seemed to have once had the image of a large astrological chart carved in, but it had been split open, probably the casualty of a wayward curse that had ricocheted all the way to this side of the hall. The shelves on the inside had fallen and there were large pieces of rounded glass near the floor, orbs of prophecy that had been broken. A few were left on the top shelf, just a few. As he walked closer, Harry noticed that some of the thin letters which had been carved on the outside of the window were still visible: MOST ANC_NT _ND _TORIC.

"Sorry to disappoint Malfoy, but the prophecy that your precious Dark Lord was looking for wasn't especially ancient or historic." Draco smirked but said nothing, so Harry continued. "And it isn't here anymore, even in shards. I destroyed it; I'm sure you know that."

Still, no response. "So if you're here because you've suddenly become afraid that someone you actually care about is going to end up like those bodies, you won't find your answer."

Malfoy finally turned around to look at him. Surprisingly, he didn't insult Harry or curse him or even walk away. "Oh Potter, it's adorable to see you try to figure me out. For the record, you're awful at it." His voice was still dry. "I know you destroyed your prophecy. Believe it or not it's not the only thing here worth looking for."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Draco, turning back toward the cabinet, cut him off, "Have you ever wondered Potter, why people have particular fates? Why the universe cares so much about how certain people live their lives and gives them so much importance, and then so little to others? What _drives_ destiny? Have you ever asked yourself 'why me?' Why not someone else? Anyone else…"

"Why do you care?" Harry snapped. He was confused. The dull, emotionless voice, the pensive words…none of that seemed like Malfoy.

Draco shrugged, "It's interesting. Hundreds of destinies that the cosmic universe thought worthwhile to bother precious Seers with, all lined up orb after orb, and now hundreds of _thousands_ of shards of orb after orb strewn across the floor after the first major battle of a war to be fought the soul of the wizarding world. It's almost poetic." He laughed, "That last part was sarcasm."

Harry stared at him in a mixture of disgust and confusion. "So what Malfoy?" he asked. "You see tragic death for the first time in your life and you just suddenly become curious about fate and the meaning of life? Nothing to do with how your father had his biggest downfall here just months ago?"

"It wasn't a downfall," Malfoy sniggered softly. "And this has nothing to do with my father."

"Oh really?" Harry challenged.

"I'm an ass, not an idiot. I have no intention of sustaining the Dark Lord's humiliation of my family by making an utter imbecile of myself, nor do I have any intention of losing this Ministry job out of foolishness. I have no malicious objectives."

"Just philosophical ones," Harry said sarcastically.

"Do I need to mention the beauty of the cosmic universe again?" He was smirking but the usual mocking intensity was missing from his voice.

"You're not funny or clever Malfoy," he said slowly. "You're just trying to fix what can't be fixed."

"You mean, I'm trying to fix my father's failure to get the prophecy off you and the hell that's resulted from it?" He laughed again, "Don't project your problems onto me Potter. I don't blame myself, or my father as a matter of fact, for anything. You're the one that's here to _fix_ things. You're the one that blames yourself."

"_Shut up_," Harry snapped, taking out his wand again. He hated how much Malfoy seemed to know about what had happened in the Department of Mysteries; he hated how easy it was for that to get him riled up.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Put it away Potter. I could be saying a lot worse. And lose the anger. It doesn't suit you."

"What do you mean 'it doesn't sui -"

"It'll only get worse you know. In the weeks and months to come. If you can't learn to deal, well…you're the kind of righteous son-of-a-bitch that'll get consumed by it."

Harry tried to reply again, and he was cut off yet again. "I mean, _look around_: you are literally surrounded by the broken fragments of the truth. Might as well get used to that fact that it hurts."

Harry lowered his wand sightly. "Are you - are you _giving me advice_?" he stammered in surprise.

"I'm changing the conversation," Draco insisted as he stood up and brushed the little pieces of glass of his suit. "It's been working masterfully by the way, considering that you still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here."

By that point, Harry must have looked absolutely dumbfounded, because Malfoy laughed bitterly, "What? You thought I'd easily say something stupid, immature, incriminating, etc. etc., of course then giving you plenty of justification to curse me?"

"N - no," Harry stammered.

"Pity. It would have been a much better plan than the one you have now, which I figure is nonexistent. You should probably work on that too."

Harry was quiet for a moment and then put away his wand. "You know," he began slowly. "You're starting to make me wonder Malfoy…If I'd shaken your hand that first day of class, maybe you'd have turned out differently."

It was the first time during the exchange that Draco looked taken aback. But the surprised expression was immediately replaced by one of disgust. "Your ego puts mine to shame Potter," he spat. "Let me assure you that no matter what you may or may not have done, regardless of how that much would have _changed_ things, I'd still have ended up right here, standing on this exact same floor, looking at that exact same cabinet with more or less the exact same expression on my face." He paused, "Now that _was_ poetic."

Harry looked at him carefully. For the first time that night, Malfoy was shooting him a look and using a tone of absolute revulsion, maybe one of his worsts. But Harry couldn't understand why, what he'd said to trigger it that was something worse than what he'd said before. And there was something even odder in Malfoy's voice, something more personal, that seemed even beyond hatred.

"I'm trying to be ni – "

"Yes, yes," Draco rolled his eyes, his face regaining its neutral expression. "You're trying to be nice because you think that little by little over the weeks you've been glimpsing parts of my deeper, mature soul and have a chance to heroically save it from completing the transformation from immature schoolyard bully to evil Death Eater scum. My soul will try to remember to thank you one day."

Harry shook his head, "You're hopeless."

"Unabashedly so." Disgruntled, Draco started walking away, "Come on, let's get out of here."

"I don't need your help."

As if nothing at all abnormal had been happening, Draco paused and shot him a particularly sarcastic look, "Of course you don't. You're fine with being hopelessly lost. Or with being caught by the next Department of Mysteries guard, which happens to be on duty in this area in…say ten minutes I figure. This might be the only floor the Ministry actively protects, but I've heard it said they take it seriously, especially after your, well…" He shrugged, "Personally, I would be very amused if you got caught, but then you'd tell them all that _I _was here as well and I'd have to explain myself. This was Is just easier."

Harry sighed and gave in reluctantly, starting to follow Malfoy down the length of the room, "What about the _current_ Ministry guard?"

"Not around. Convenient no?"

Harry decided it wasn't worth asking if Malfoy had anything to do with that. Shaking his head of suspicions, he walked a few steps behind him, past the side door Harry had used to enter, past the main entrance leading to the time room, past even row 97, and all the way to the other side of the room, where they went through a small, almost unnoticeable doorway in the corner.

They found themselves in a long, thin, stone hall with only a few doorways at hundreds of feet. Harry guessed that it was a side corridor running through the entire Department on Mysteries.

"How do you know your way around here?" Harry muttered, more to himself than anything else.

Draco's uncanny sense of hearing kicked in, and surprisingly, he actually replied, "My great-grandfather almost personally redesigned this entire complex. My family has the only complete set of Ministry maps outside the Minister of Magic's office." He laughed and corrected himself, "_Had_ I suppose. Either way, I enjoyed messing with them when I was little. I have a good memory"

He abruptly turned and went through one of the side doors. Harry started to follow him, then stopped short again. He felt his stomach sink and a knot form in his throat. They were in the single room he'd been visiting again and again in his nightmares. Large, dimly lit, with that raised stone dais and crumbling archway in the middle. As he looked at it, he could almost see Sirius's body falling through.

"Fuck," Malfoy muttered, as he realized why Harry had stopped. "Potter," he looked at him closely. "_Potter._"

"This isn't funny Malfoy," Harry spat, his anger rising again.

"Astonishingly I'm not trying to be. We're taking the Ministry-wide stairs you idiot," he retorted. "One of the last remnants of the Ministry's old design, back when it was all just stairs and stone archways. This is the only way to get there."

Harry swallowed and didn't acknowledge what Malfoy had said, but he did walk into the room. The closer he got to the archway, the more sharply he could remember that night, the precise expression on Sirius' face as he'd fallen slowly through the veil. He had half a mind to run toward it, jump through, and drag his godfather out.

"Don't think about it. I'm not testifying to the Ministry about your suicide, " Malfoy interrupted. He'd slowed down and was walking next to Harry, still watching him carefully, as if he in fact did expect Harry to jump through the veil himself. "Besides, you can't bring him back," he added.

"How do you know so much about it anyway?" Harry snapped. The continuous references to Sirius were making his blood boil.

"Aunt Bella likes to brag," Draco replied coolly.

"I thought you've never met your dear Aunt Bella."

"_Oops_," Draco rolled his eyes.

He stopped in front of a large square pillar attached to the wall and heaved against it. If Harry had been paying attention, he'd have expressed surprise as it gave away and revealed a tall long column with a stone staircase circling about it, looking far older than the rest of the building. As it were, he barely realized where he was walking. Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of him to draw him in, and he didn't even notice.

The Atrium seemed a long way up, even if it was only one level, and they walked slowly and in silence for a good bit, their footsteps barely echoing on the old stones that were left over from the Ministry's earliest years. Surprisingly, it was Malfoy who broke the silence.

"In the 1810s," he began, almost to himself, "there was a huge push in the Ministry to find out what exists after death. Is there a heaven, is there a hell – that sort of thing. It was around that time that the Department of Mysteries gained real autonomy. Became a sovereign department and all, separate from Law Enforcement. And it was also around that time that a group of wizards came up with a pretty cool theory. They figured that every person has…technically they called it an 'essence.' Like…basically like a soul, only a little more than that. And that as long as a person's essence was _intact_, almost anything could happen to their body and they'd be fine. They'd be alive."

Harry shook his head and vaguely began to ask, "Why are you telling m- "

"I think you'll find it interesting, now shut up," Malfoy interrupted with annoyance. He cleared his throat, "The Ministry poured _billions_ of galleons into testing this theory, and over time they basically proved it true. It's irrelevant how. Anyway, the next logical step was to make use of that knowledge, and in about the 1830s they built that room down there. They thought that if in the end all that mattered was the sanctity of a person's essence, you could theoretically…you could _strip _a person's body of that essence, colloquially speaking strip them of their soul, and, well, return it to their body. And if you could do that, _theoretically_ you could send someone to…to whatever 'the land of the dead is' and then have them come back. _That's_ why they built that archway." He coughed again, "Can't remember the date. Also irrelevant. What's important is that theory is very different from reality. And while the Ministry managed to figure out how to strip a body of its essence, they never figured out how to return it, especially without using any Dark Magic to help. And while they figured out - supposedly - how to send someone to…the other side, so to say, they never figured out how to get them back. I suppose one wizard claimed he did it by accident with his cat, but it's never been repeated and the guy was a nutter in the first place. Anyway…now when anyone walks through that veil, it doesn't matter who they are, they _do_ have their essences stripped from their bodies, but no one knows what happens to either. Popular opinion's that it's not much different from just dying a normal death and passing on to…well, whatever there is after death."

He stopped at the faint outline of a rectangle and pushed against it. The wall protruded forward, and they walked around it and into the Atrium. "Interesting right?"

Harry had stopped right outside the door. This time it was unmistakable: Malfoy had actively tried to make him feel better. Even more surprisingly, if possible, he'd succeeded. Understanding _why_ Sirius was dead, and why he was could never come back, somehow made thinking about it a little easier. "Thanks," he muttered confusedly.

"What for? I was just talking," Malfoy drawled. "Obviously I read too much." The anger, moodiness, defensiveness…all the customary characteristics seemed to have returned to his voice and he practically marched across the room to the the fireplaces and reached for Floo Powder.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Harry blurted out suddenly.

At that point he didn't expect Malfoy to reply at all, he just felt an urge to ask the question. But to his surprise, Draco turned around and faced him with a wide smile as he stepped backwards into the fireplace, "Of course not Potter. You broke it remember?"

* * *

"I don't get it. I just don't get it," Harry muttered in frustration. He was sitting in his bedroom with Ron and Hermione, ostensibly reading the Daily Prophet but having a hard time focusing.

On the floor next to him, Ron was rummaging through samples of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products that Fred and George had given him, "I don't get why you don't just tell Kingsley mate. Going into the Department of Mysteries without permission? That's got to be grounds for getting him fired...maybe arrested. Think of it, a year at Hogwarts _without_ Malfoy."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Harry's right Ron. He can't prove Malfoy went down there without admitting he did himself, and then Malfoy could just say Harry's trying to frame him and it's going to become this giant mess that the Ministry's general incompetence will only make worse. And Ron if you set those firecrackers off inside, your mother will have your head."

Ron glared at her but put the box away.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Plus I don't want to get Tonks into more trouble. Kingsley and Moody were mad enough at her than she left me alone to finish paperwork in the the interns' offices; they really don't need to know that I spent that time sneaking through the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Still," she continued, setting aside the textbook list from her Hogwarts letter, "It is weird. He was just sitting there?"

"Sitting and thinking," Harry replied quickly. He hadn't really told them about the entire conversation; he wasn't planning to. "But that's not what I mean." When Hermione shot him a confused glance, he continued quickly, "I mean, yeah that was really weird, and my first guess would have been that he had some underlining nefarious purpose, but now that I think about it, the whole thing was completely in the realm of typical Malfoy weirdness - and THAT is what I don't get."

"Wait..." Hermione said. "You lost me."

"What I mean..." Harry began again. "For someone who is so...so _obscenely _arrogant, he seriously undersells himself."

"Are you complimenting him?" Ron asked with mild disgust.

"Hear me out!" Harry said defensively. "The guy spends all his time at Hogwarts whining or plotting like a child and having Crabbe and Goyle ready to fight his battles for him, but I swear he could probably pummel anyone at school himself. He never sounds the least bit better than average or mildly interested class, but he gets eleven OWLs? In fact, he's actually really, _really _smart."

Ron shot him a surprised look, "Who are you and what have you done to Harry Potter?"

Hermione shrugged, "It's not easy to keep performing at a high level Harry. Just because Malfoy's smart doesn't mean he's willing to put in the effort to do well in a school setting. Or to work out instead of sleeping in. Or to read instead of...whatever Slytherins do."

"Yes," Harry said quickly, "which would be a perfect explanation, _if _he didn't try _so hard _to act like he was so superior to everyone else."

"He isn't," Ron said.

"I'm not saying he i-" Harry paused and thought for a while. "My question is this," he began slowly. "If you're so invested in having people think you're this great, accomplished wizard, person, whatever...if you think you're _so_ much better than everyone else, why in the world would you hide the things about you that are actually most impressive? Why act like you don't have what would unquestionably be your best attributes? THAT is what I don't get. I mean, it's not exactly like the Malfoy we know to be modest."

Neither Ron or Hermione replied immediately, Hermione looking lost in thought as Ron didn't even try to hide his skepticism.

"Maybe," Hermione finally began. "It's some Slytherin thing. Something about..I don't know, needing to play your cards close to the vest or...or having only your friends know what you're really capable of until the last minute."

"Are those Slytherin qualities?" Harry asked.

"Well I don't know," Hermione objected. "It was just a theory off the top of my head. And honestly Harry, I don't really think it matters. At least, I don't think it's worth you getting worked up about."

"It's a very frustrating inconsistency," Harry insisted.

"Whatever mate," Ron said. "Just do me one favor: Don't ask him."

"What?"

"It might give him ideas," Ron continued earnestly. "And think of it: a more arrogant Malfoy?" He shuddered.

"Well from what Harry's said, at least it would probably be a less immature Malfoy," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah, he'd be less prone to arguing and more to just...talking philosophically at you."

"You serious?" Ron asked. He quite possibly looked even more disgusted than before.

"I'm telling you," Harry said again. "It's _weird_. He does thing where he tal-"

At that moment, Ginny knocked on the door and poked her head through, "Hey guys, mum says dinner's ready. She also told me to get Tonks?"

"She's upstairs in Sirius' old room," Hermione supplied. Shooting Harry an apologetic glance, she softly added, "She sits up there sometimes."

As Ginny started walking up stairs, Harry stood up quickly, "Wait, I'll go get her."

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny quickly looked at each other in concern.

"I'm fine guys," Harry insisted. "Really."

He took a deep breath as he walked up the stairs to the topmost landing. He had actually been looking for an opportunity to talk to Tonks. For the past few weeks, he'd been coming to terms more and more with Sirius's death, but after what Malfoy had said, it was as if some last piece had clicked in his mind. For the first time, he felt that he didn't have to get over the emotional pain of a shock he couldn't grasp. He finally felt like he understood what had happened that night.

Harry knocked softly on the door to Sirius' room before opening it, "Hey Tonks?"

She was sitting on the window ledge looking out over the street and turned around quickly. Harry could tell she hadn't been crying, but her face nevertheless looked dull and empty. "Oh, hi Harry," she said quickly, surprised to see him.

"Dinner's ready," Harry mumbled.

"Ah. Um, thanks, I'll come right down," she replied, a little awkwardly.

Harry took another deep breath and entered the room. "Tonks," he began again. "It's...it's not your fault."

Tonks looked absolutely shocked that Harry was bringing the subject up, "I - I don't think it i-"

"Yeah you do," Harry interrupted softly. "But...Tonks, it was an accident. If anything, it's the fault of...of Bellatrix being who she is and of Voldemort helping make her into who she is and of...of Peter Pettigrew framing him for what happened to my parents and of all the years in Azkaban and of the Ministry being inept and Dumbledore keeping secrets and my going there in the first place...It's everyone's and no one's fault. He...he was there for a million reasons and he wanted to be there. And he didn't even really lose to her Tonks. He just...fell. There was nothing anybody could have done. Dumbledore himself could have gone through that veil and, well..." His voice trailed off and he swallowed nervously.

Tonks looked at him in silence for a while. "_You_, you're fine with what happened?" she finally asked.

"No," Harry replied quickly. "Of course not. But I - I understand what happened. And I accept it. And I - I know Sirius wouldn't want me to blame myself, and he wouldn't want you to blame yourself either."

For a long time, Tonks turned to look out the window again and didn't say a word. Then she smiled at Harry, "Thanks."

* * *

"Really Potter, you have to be the luckiest kid in the world," Aramis was saying. "I mean, for _anyone_ to evade You-Know-Who constantly…but _you_?"

Harry took a deep breath and swallowed angrily. He was standing in line for coffee from Ministry Munchies, which had been relocated further inside the Ministry to avoid the media onslaught in the Atrium, Aramis and Hector standing behind him. It was far too early on a Monday morning for him to have the patience to put up with the two of them. He'd been trying to for the past ten minutes. The line was far too long.

"It doesn't bother you that you're so scrawny?" Hector added. "I mean, I'm sure you make an okay seeker but a stunned Bellatrix Lestrange could probably overpower you, and she's both a woman and a lunatic."

"What I'd give to see the two of you in front of Voldemort or Bellatrix," Harry muttered between gritted teeth.

"What was that Potter?" Hector asked as Aramis laughed behind him. "We're not afraid of Death Eater scum."

"Just of their names," Harry retorted.

Hector glared at him and continued, "And we're certainly going to out-duel them."

Harry snorted, "Right."

"Something you don't believe about that Potter?"

"Our dueling scores are the best the Ministry's seen in decades. Even old Mad-Eye Moody was impressed when he heard them. The last time we've lost a duel when we were both fully fit was -"

"Give it a rest," Harry said, tired of hearing the two go on about their scores yet again. "You're students."

Aramis looked angry, "Maybe now. But rest assured, in a year, we'll be the one's saving your fragile ass Potter, because HE is not getting the better of us."

"Oh really?" Harry snapped. He really couldn't believe the them. It was one thing to be arrogant, one thing to think of yourselves at the best duelers at the Ministry...it was another entirely to be so deluded as to think that Voldemort would just bend over before you. "You guys think you're so great? Why don't we see about that?"

Slowly, and simultaneously, they both smirked. "Are you challenging us to a duel Potter?" Hector asked.

"You bet."

"Challenges like that aren't allowed at the Ministry," Aramis said smoothly. "And certainly not with interns."

"What?" Harry challenged. "You afraid?"

The amusement immediately fell off Aramis' face, "Not a chance. You and the Malfoy boy against us. Today at five in the dueling room downstairs."

"Done," Harry said quickly and with bravado. "We'll see who's bragging then."

Hector snorted, "Trust us Potter. It won't be you."

Only when they'd all gotten coffee and he was sitting back at his desk far from Aramis and Hector did Harry realize the magnitude of what he'd done. Groaning, he lowered his head to desk and hit himself softly. He knew that he was prone to making quick and impulsive decisions, but challenging the Ministry's two best Aurors _or_ Arctors to a duel in front of what he was sure would be the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement had to be one of the worst. He wouldn't back down, not after all that and certainly not for Aramis and Hector, but nevertheless, he knew it was a stupid idea. Not to mention that he hadn't exactly spoken only for himself...

Fifteen minutes later, Draco came back from the training floor, slammed his hands on Harry's desk, and shouted, "What the hell have you done?"

Harry swallowed heavily. "I see gossip travels quickly," he mumbled.

"Listen Potter," Malfoy continued shouting, "I don't know if you think we've been _bonding_ or something, but if so you are terribly mistaken and under a massive, _massive_ delusion. Almost as great as the delusion that I would fight ANYONE with you, much less Aramis and Hector."

"Come on," Harry objected, "They're horrible. They need someone to put them in their place."

"Oh I agree," Malfoy said quickly. "Which is why I can't wait to hear about how they both wet themselves the first time they even set eyes on Bella."

Harry's mouth fell open, "You really want to let them be until some hypothetical future when they meet your evil aunt?"

"Under present circumstances it's certainly the most judicious course of action," Malfoy snapped, heaving himself into his chair and not even trying to defend Bellatrix.

Harry groaned, "Merlin, FIGHT YOUR OWN BATTLES."

"Pretty sure Merlin wouldn't give a shit about Aramis and Hector," Draco muttered.

"But you do!" Harry insisted. "You can't stand them either, almost tried to blow their lights out didn't you? Think of it: all that stuff they've said about your family..."

Draco glared at him. "First of all," he snapped. "Baiting me by referencing my family is highly un-Gryffindor of you. I'd watch it before starting to fall down the slippery slope."

Harry rolled his eyes; he knew Malfoy was only trying to change the conversation.

"Secondly, what happened to the 'they're just bullies' approach?"

"They are," Harry replied quickly. "And sometimes it's necessary to give bullies what's coming to them. Something else I learned from putting up with you for five years." Malfoy glared at him again and Harry added quickly, "Not that that's important, because I know it isn't helping my case."

Draco took a deep breath, "Potter, let me say this in the clearest terms humanly possible: I've never been able to stand you, I can't stand you much better now, and I'm neither going to help you or make a fool of myself next to you, whatever the offer. End of story."

Harry sighed. "_Fine_," he snapped. "Be a coward."

"Thank you," Malfoy said quickly. "I will be."

Harry rummaged through the papers on his desk and grabbed a few. "At least," he began, "can you drop these off to Aramis and Hector?"

Malfoy froze with a shocked look on his face, "_What_?"

"Can you drop these papers off to Aramis and Hector?" Harry repeated.

"_Did someone hit you on the head Potter_? No, I'm _not_ going to be the one to tell Aramis and Hector that the 'we' which never existed is surrendering lamely."

Harry rolled his eyes, "Don't worry, I'll go tell them…just, later."

"Believe it or not Potter, I have no interest in making this easier for you."

"All you'll have to do is put a few sheets of paper on their desks. You don't even need to talk to them."

Draco shook his head in exasperation, the day's sequence of events having clearly taken him by surprise. "Since when am I expected to do you favors?" he exclaimed.

"You're going to leave anyway in a few minutes to go raid the Ministry financial records anyway," Harry insisted. "_Please_."

Malfoy threw his head back in frustration, but he must have decided it wasn't worth the effort to object further because he got up, snatched the papers from Harry's hand, and hissed, "_Fine_."

He ran into to Susan as he was leaving the room. "Are you two really dueling Aramis and Hector?" she asked excitedly.

"_NO_," Malfoy shouted, pushing past her. "Fuck you Potter."

Susan looked at Harry in confusion. He smiled nervously, "_Maybe_. I still think it might work out."

"…Really? He seemed pretty emphatic."

"_Yeahhh_…" Harry laughed, "I'm sort of expecting that all three of them are going to be as insufferable as ever."

Telling Susan that he'd explain later and glancing through his case files distractedly, Harry fidgeted and waited anxiously for about half an hour until Malfoy returned. He did, however, have a hard time restraining himself from laughing in loud self-satisfaction when Draco slammed the door behind him and shouted, "Bloody hell, I can't wait to kick their asses."

Harry smirked, "I thought you'd say that if you actually saw them face to face."

Draco momentarily froze as he sat down, the realization of what Harry had done slowly dawning on his face. "Fate's a bitch," he finally spat angrily.

"What?"

"Never mind," Malfoy hissed.

Harry didn't bother to ask. He was pleased enough to have figured out a way to convince Malfoy of going through with the idea, even if it was against his natural, bigoted instincts. There was no need to push his luck.

A few minutes later, however, Malfoy groaned, "Potter, this is _stupid_."

Harry sighed, "I don't get it. You don't like them. You definitely want to get the better of them. You have an opportunity to. What's the problem?"

"_Doing it_."

"Come on Malfoy, if you want to, you could probably just try beating Aramis up?"

Draco pursed his lips, "Thanks for your recently discovered faith in my physical ability Potter, but, um…_he'd clobber me_."

"Really?" Harry asked, with some genuine surprise.

"_Yes_," Draco nodded emphatically. "If you haven't noticed, he's _huge_."

"You're not exactly scrawny..."

"Again, _thank you_, but that is more than a little deceiving. I'm built very differently from Aramis, suited far better for agility and reflex exercises. I assure you, _he'd clobber me_."

"Well," Harry shrugged off the conversation and continued cheerily, "that's why you have a wand then."

"I don't think you get it Potter," Draco insisted, "Aramis and Hector are _partners_."

Harry paused, "Wait -"

"Not _lovers_," Malfoy snapped quickly. "They're Ministry partners, _Arctor_ partners…For the past two, say three years, they've _trained_ to duel together. They know everything about how the other fights: They know where the other is at all times, they know where he's going to be. _They know what the other is going to do before he does it._"

"Oh," Harry said after a short pause. He'd given so much thought to convincing Malfoy to even agree to duel Aramis and Hector that he'd forgotten how awful of an idea it was in the first place.

"_Oh_," Malfoy repeated sarcastically. "You know, despite how much I've _wanted_ to curse you again and again these past five years, I've had enough self-restraint to have learned nothing more about your dueling style than your almost compulsive use of disarming charms."

Harry snorted at the idea of Malfoy having self-restraint. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"It's a little obvious," Draco shrugged. "Plus I told you, Aunt Bella likes to talk."

"It's not a compulsive use," Harry replied defensively, once again ignoring Malfoy's reference to his aunt. At least until that afternoon, he wanted to preserve the peace as much as possible. "And of course dueling them won't be _easy_. They're Arctors, two of the Ministry's best. That's why beating them is going to be so satisfying."

"Except we _won't_," Draco emphasized.

They spent most of the day like that, doing snippets of work before Draco pointed out yet another reason why the idea of dueling Aramis and Hector was horrible and Harry tried, with little success, to refute it. There was also a particularly long tirade to Luciana in Italian that Harry figured was filled with a large number of obscenities, judging by how badly the girl's face had flushed.

Ultimately, Harry didn't care about being too convincing. He knew that Malfoy was right and that there was no sensible reason to have lost his composure in front of Aramis and Hector and challenge them to a duel that would most likely end with the Arctors victorious and their arrogances fortified. But he wasn't about to back out now, and he didn't need Malfoy to agree with him, just to agree to fight alongside him.

Around three o'clock that afternoon, Tonks hurried into the room, "You two are dueling Aramis and Hector?"

Malfoy groaned loudly and hit his head on the table.

"I may have drafted him without asking first," Harry explained, in response to Tonks' questioning glance.

"How many people _know_?" Malfoy asked.

"Most everyone? This is pretty huge. Savage is taking _bets_."

As Draco groaned again, Harry asked, "Wait, if the older Ministry officials hear about it, won't they make sure it doesn't happen?"

"Probably. It's against policy. But as of now, I think the most senior person to have heard about it is Dawlish and all he did was put thirty galleons on you two." She shrugged, "He kinda hates Aramis and Hector."

"Great," Malfoy began sarcastically, "We won't just be embarrassing ourselves; we'll be doing it in front of a huge crowd of expectant Mistry witches and wizards."

Harry smiled thinly, "You know Malfoy, I should congratulate you: today you're actually reminding me of the guy I know from Hogwarts."

As Draco glared at him, Tonks looked between them nervously, "Are you two sure you're doing this together? That was sort of the part that surprised me."

Malfoy leaned back in his seat petulantly and waved Harry on to answer the question.

"We are," Harry assured her. "Cooperating for a greater good and all."

"'Cooperation' wouldn't be the word I'd use," Malfoy drawled.

"I'm trying to inspire him," Harry continued drily. "It hasn't been easy. I'm about to resort to just telling him to channel his aunt." Tonks' mouth fell open in shock, and Harry added quickly, "Please don't judge me. I'm desperate here."

"Wow…" Malfoy smirked. "You know, if you're going to start jettisoning your principles away and engaging in the art of slyness, I'm going through with this just to witness the process."

"See?" Harry turned to Tonks. "It's working."

"Okay then…" she said, in a tone that lay somewhere between wariness and confusion. "Take care…both of you…I guess." She stopped on her way to the door, "Oh, by the way…I may have bid fifty galleons I can't really afford, so…please try and stay on the same wavelength long enough to win."

"You can't afford fifty galleons?" Malfoy quipped. Callous as it may have been, the statement was, much to Harry's relief, one of the last things Draco said that afternoon, short of a few odd mutterings of "Screw fate." It was as if talking to Tonks had made everything official.

The two hours until five o'clock flew by, and before either of them really knew it, they were walking in silence toward the Auror training grounds, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible every time they passed a senior Ministry worker.

"You know," Harry finally said, bringing up something that had been nagging at him for a while. "I hope you're not going to start whining in front of _them_."

Malfoy took a deep breath and hissed, "Don't worry Potter. As _idiotic_ as I consider what we're doing to be, I have enough pride to act as if I have misplaced confidence in it."

"Good," Harry said with false cheeriness. "That's what I love about you."

They entered the training floor at that moment, and from where they were standing they could see that a large crowd had already gathered around the dueling room floor. A few of the young witches and wizards were clearly not from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Harry could've sworn he could see the top of Seamus Finnigan's head.

"You'd think they'd have something better to do."

"It's good that they don't," Harry pointed out.

Malfoy grunted. "For the record Potter," he mumbled. "I _hate _you."

"It's not like we're not dueling to kill Malfoy. There's no need for last words."

"Oh I know," he said quickly. "It just felt like a good time to remind you."

The Ministry dueling room in the center of that training floor was an impressive arrangement. It had transparent walls and a shined stone floor, but both had been charmed to feel softer upon contact, so that witches and wizards could be thrown up, down, and across the room without experiencing serious bodily harm. Scattered throughout the floor were also a variety of columns, platforms, steps, and oddly shaped obstacles, intended to imitate the reality that duels were rarely conducted on a homogenous empty floor. Even more sparsely were scattered a few supplements for the fights: long, thin bars and rods that used to ward away opponents or magically flung toward them; classic swords, scimitars, daggers, and axes, which had multiplied in number ever since they'd become favored weapons of a few of the Death Eaters; occasional pieces of furniture or natural outdoor elements that mimicked the kinds of objects that might be found and used in actual duel settings; and a variety of other seemingly random items. And above the dueling floor were ropes, heavy wooden bars, and platforms that allowed the Aurors to practice above the ground.

Aramis and Hector stood casually in the center of the floor around which the crowd had gathered, naturally unimpressed by a room in which they'd spent so much time over their years of training and laughing with some friends with their customary pride and arrogance. As Harry and Draco approached, the crowd gathered tightly around them and the two Arctors took out their wands.

"There's still time to back out," Hector said. "Save your young psyches the humiliation."

"Thanks for the offer," Harry replied, "but let's just see how things turn out."

"Oh how could you even suggest it Hector," Aramis said, his tone almost salacious. "This is a big deal to them. Look, it's a bi-partisan effort."

"Aren't you a little old to be going on about Hogwarts rivalries?" Harry challenged.

"No one ever is Potter," Draco supplied. "But Ravenclaws are especially bitter. Unlike Slytherins and Gryffindors they don't actually matter and unlike Hufflepuffs they can't accept that they don't." At that, Aramis' smile fell a little.

"_Get on with it_," a voice sounded from the crowd.

"Our pleasure," Aramis shouted back. He and Hector backed away and bowed with excessive flourish.

Harry took out his wand and nodded. Next to him, he could see that Malfoy hadn't even pretended to bow. There was a tense moment of inaction as both sides waited for the other to strike. Then:

"_Stupefy_," "_Relashio_," "_Impedimenta_," "_Expelliarmus_." The four of them cast their spells simultaneously. None hit their targets.

"Told you Potter," Malfoy muttered. "_Protego_! Compulsive use of disarming charms."

"Shut up and fight," he snapped. "_Verdimillious_!"

"_Levicorpus_!"

"_Protego_! _Immobulus_!"

"_Engorgio skullus_!"

"_Relashio Corpus!"_

Hector's spell caught Harry in the chest, and he was thrown into the air and hit the ground with a thud. He winced. The room might have been charmed to make fighting less dangerous, but being hurled around still hurt and knocked the wind out of him. He scrambled up quickly and retorted, "_Depulso_!"

Aramis avoided the spell easily, then cast a knockback jinx. Behind him, Hector shot off a disarming charm before shielding the two of them powerfully. Malfoy had been right. Aramis and Hector knew exactly how to fight with each other. They moved into the spaces the other had left behind, they covered and protected each other to perfection…it was as if they could read each other's minds as they dueled.

"_Aguamenti_" Aramis shouted. Before the words had even left his mouth, Hector had spat, "_Glacius_." Harry had seconds to brace himself as the floor in front of him turned to ice. His foot slipped and he could feel himself falling as Aramis approached.

"_Expelli_ -"

"_Carpe retractum_!" Harry felt his chest jerk as Malfoy pulled him out of the way of the Disarming Charm.

"Stay on your feet Potter," he snapped, as he pressed his heels down hard and squatted to avoid Hector's stunning spell. "_Impedimenta_!"

"_Protego. Flipendo Tria!_"

Almost half an hour passed like that, with Aramis and Hector pulling off the stronger and more persistent attacks while Harry and Draco managed to push them back. Even though the gap in skill was obvious, the duel was turning into a real competition. Harry was standing firm against the two Arctors, especially one-on-one, and even though Malfoy seemed to be the worst dueler of the lot and was being thrown across the floor far more often than any of the other three, he had the greatest tolerance for having the wind knocked out of him in the first place and was getting up in seconds. Aramis and Hector genuinely seemed surprised at how well the two underage wizards were holding their own. At least the smug grins had dropped from their faces.

As the time wore on, however, Aramis and Hector were steadily gaining the upper hand. Harry and Draco spent more and more time countering and less attacking themselves. The Arctors knew more spells. They'd been in more duels for such a long length of time. They knew the dueling floor better, knew how to move around the obstacles and use them to their advantage.

Harry ducked to avoid a hex from Aramis, who suddenly turned to the column Draco was backed against and shouted, "_Confringo!_" The pillar shattered into hundreds of pieces, and with a shout, Malfoy was launched in the air with them. He grunted loudly as he hit the ground, and a few pieces of stone hit his arm and back.

"That's _got _to hurt!" screamed an excited voice from the audience.

Harry managed to throw Hector backward and turned to see if Draco needed help. He was having a harder time getting up after those blows. Seeing him crouch over and gasp for breath, Harry groaned inwardly. The foremost reason for Draco surviving so far despite being a weaker dueler than Harry, Arctor, or Aramis was his heightened sense of endurance. It was the only reason Harry hadn't had to try and fight both Arctors at the same time. But his endurance seemed to be giving out, and Aramis was standing right in front of Harry with Hector behind.

"_Protego_!" He blocked Hector's cascading jinx as he tried to think of a way to ward off both Arctors. Malfoy was still catching his breath.

It was at that moment, a brief pause in the fighting as the four of them stood in limbo, that Aramis turned around and addressed the crowd. The arrogance was returning as Harry and Draco seemed be falling away in the battle. "You guys like that?" he shouted. "You're going to love this!" With a flourish, he reached over and grabbed a long sword from one of the tall barrels scattered on the floor. "Come on," he challenged. "You two afraid now?"

As he shifted his eyes quickly between Aramis, Hector behind him, and Malfoy, trying to decide what to do next, Harry noticed a change in the other boy's expression, the slightest tinge of Malfoy's customary, self-confident smirk. He could hear the words from earlier that day: "suited far better for agility and reflex exercises." For a moment, Harry hesitated; there was no reason for him to expect…But they were on the losing end of the duel anyway. If there was a time to risk trusting his sudden partner, that was it.

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned his back to Aramis and faced Hector, just in time to block the Arctor's latest stunning charm. He'd know in seconds if the gamble had been worth it; odds were it hadn't been and he'd soon experience a sharp, piercing sensation across the shoulders.

But he didn't. Harry's guess had been right. In response to Aramis, Draco had lunged across the room, grabbed the other sword, and pushed Aramis back. They were segregated into pairs now: Harry and Hector still dueling, while Aramis and Draco, their wands largely forgotten, thrusted, lunged, and parried across the floor. It was as if new energy had been injected into the fight.

Harry concentrated on Hector, trying to find some weakness in his fight. "_Confundo_!"

"_Protego! Stupefy!_"

"_Depulso_!"

"_Tarantallegra_!"

"_Verdimillious_!"

"_Relashio_!"

"_Protego_! _Ventus_!"

"_Protego_! _Impedimenta_!"

"_Expelliarmus_!'

"_Fumos_!" Aramis suddenly shouted.

"Shit," Harry cursed, as he closed his eyes against the smoke in his face and coughed. He hadn't realized that Hector had been pushing him backwards closer and closer toward Aramis, so that his partner could fight Malfoy and interfere in their duel as well.

_ "Flipendo_!"

His eyes still shut, Harry couldn't see Hector's curse coming; his body flew across the floor and almost hit a spectator.

Wincing and still on his stomach, he grunted and managed to mutter, "_Incarcerous_." Ropes issued from his wand and grabbed Hector by the ankles, pulling him down and toward Harry before he could stun Malfoy from behind.

"Diffindo," Hector grumbled.

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted over to him as he got up. "Try to -"

Draco, however, didn't need any telling. Realizing what their opponents were doing, he'd taken advantage of Aramis' moment of distraction as he'd dealt with his partner to grab on to one of the ropes clutched to the ceiling and pull himself up on one of the bars above the training floor. "You afraid Aramis?" he spat mockingly. There was no way the Arctor wouldn't follow.

As Aramis clambered to face Draco above the training floor and the pairs separated completely, Harry turned all his attention back to Hector. His partner wouldn't be able to help him now, and Harry was beginning to notice something. Every time Hector need to use a shield charm to block one of Harry's spells, there was a significant time delay until he responded with another curse. If Harry could just take advantage of that pause…

"_Verdimillious_!"

"_Immoblus_!"

"_Petrificus Totalus_!"

"_Protego_! _Rictusempra_!"

"_Flipendo_!"

"_Relashio_!"

"_Protego_! _De-" _

_ "Stupefy_!" Harry braced against the impact and cast his spell almost immediately after the first. It almost threw him backwards again, but it worked. Hector's weakness, that pause after every _Protego_, didn't give him enough time to react. His stunned body was propelled backward into the nearest pillar.

There was a shout of surprise from the crowd followed by round of loud applause, but Harry didn't acknowledge it. He looked up and saw Aramis and Malfoy still fighting, having made their way between the ropes and crossbeams to a wide wooden platform. They were exchanging blows quickly and forcefully as their feet worked around the obstacles and around each other. Harry could see the annoyed look on Aramis' face. Draco might not have been stronger than the Arctor, but he was better at this.

As Draco lunged toward Aramis and turned, Harry caught his eye. He nodded briskly. Draco didn't signal back, but it was clear he noticed. He started pushing Aramis backwards, toward the edge of the platform. And for the first time in years, the Arctor forgot his training: he failed to keep in mind where his partner was. Aramis was so preoccupied with fighting Draco off that he hadn't noticed Hector had been Stunned. So when he jumped off the side of the platform and landed nimbly, daring Draco to follow, he didn't expect Harry to be behind him.

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Aramis' wand flew out of his pocket and into Harry's hand. As the Arctor turned around in surprise, Malfoy jumped down and, laying his sword blade against Aramis,' twisted the weapon out of his hand.

"Game over," Harry spat, as he finally paused to catch his breath.

Aramis looked shocked; he turned red immediately, from his neck to the roots of his golden-brown hair. "Ho - How?" he stammered, his face still blood red. He looked at Malfoy in disgust, "How did _you_ - ?"

"Next time you try to show off," Draco smirked, "don't do it with the Ministry's most kitschy combat elective. My great-grandaddy wrote the book. _Literally_."

Around them, the crowd had erupted. The observers were clapping fiercely, and there were more than a few catcalls. By the sound of it, Aramis and Hector had very few friends; most of them were crowded around the latter Arctor, reviving him.

Harry felt someone throw an arm around his shoulders. "_Oh my God that was amazing_," Lynx screamed. "You have no idea _how bloody long_ I've wanted to do that!"

"Thanks!" Harry smiled widely.

"I mean, you two were _great_," Lynx said quickly. "The - the mere _endurance_, the - "

"_I've won_!" Tonks patted Harry on the back as she hurried by him. "Well, _you've _won. Which means I've won. I'm going to find Savage!"

"And the _skill_," Lynx was saying. "I mean, they're as trained as the Ministry gets!"

"Oh please," Malfoy drawled, as he threw his sword away. "We got lucky. It was an onslaught at the end of which we'd have had our asses thoroughly handed to us if Aramis hadn't suddenly decided to show off with an old-fashioned pastime I happen to be very good in."

Lynx and Harry stopped laughing. "Really Malfoy?" Harry asked. "_Really_?"

"It's true," he shrugged.

"Yeah it's true, but do you have to point it out now? You can't just...enjoy?"

"Oh who cares how it happened?" Lynx rolled his eyes. "A win is a win; a loss is a loss. Trust me, _they'll _be taking it that way." He nodded toward Aramis and Hector, who were retreating out of the room sullenly, moving slowly through the crowd of their peers and younger Auror students that were talking excitedly, laughing, and occasionally directing a "Tell us how you're going to defeat all the Death Eaters" toward them.

"No need to be so cynical," Lynx continued.

"Yeah Malfoy," Harry laughed, "Now is not the time to grow a sense of modesty."

"Oh trust me," Draco snorted. "I'm not." He took out his wand and put it to his throat, "_Sonorus_." Then, trying to make himself heard over the chaos, he shouted, "Seven at night to three in the morning. Open bar at the Leaky Cauldron. Tab's on me!" The announcement was met with possibly even more shouts of excitement than the defeat of Aramis and Hector had been.

"_Quietus_." Turning to Harry, Draco shrugged, "I'd invite you Potter, but I don't take you for being much of a drinker."

Harry rolled his eyes, "Thanks for the thought."

"_Drinks_!" Lynx began gushing again as Susan ran up and hugged Harry in congratulations, "A tavern! Wonderful! Perfect way to top this off. Really you should come Harry; you should be _absurdly proud_! The bravery and the - the advanced spell knowledge and - and _blimey_, you two make _damn good_ partners!"

* * *

Harry was in a splendid mood that evening. It was like winning a Quidditch game, proving to Aramis and Hector that they _could_ be beaten, especially if their arrogance got in the way. Plus, Kingsley had been called away to deal with some emergency, so he had yet to be reprimanded for breaking Ministry regulations against dueling challenges. Seeing Tonks look and sound genuinely cheerful, especially after their conversation, was a nice bonus. In fact, the only drawback was having to explain first to Ron and Hermione, then to Fred, George, and Ginny, and then to Moody and Lupin what had happened that day and seeing their looks of various surprise, disapproval, and bemusement, particularly at Harry's temporary alliance with Malfoy. "Deal with the devil," he kept insisting. "Completely worth it."

That devil seemed particularly worse for the wear as he arrived at the Ministry the following morning. Instead of his customary grey, black, or navy suit with perfectly matched shirt and tie, Malfoy was wearing a pair of white golf pants and preppy white sweater, the unusually casual and monochromatic choice doing little to draw attention from the fact that his skin was a little paler their usual, his hair was a little askew, and his eyes were still a little red.

"Long night?" Harry couldn't help asking.

"Night, morning," Draco drawled, "Today, yesterday…it all runs together after a while."

Harry rolled his eyes.

Luciana's thick laugh sounded from the doorway. "So che l'espressione," she said, looking at Malfoy as she walked in . "Qualcuno aveva un sacco di divertimento la notte scorsa."

"Che posso dire? Alcool, musica, danza, la compagnia di amici…quella sensazione di carne contro carne," he laughed. "Non posso resistere."

"Mi ricordo. In effetti, con tutto il tuo talento sarebbe un peccato per resistere."

"Ho sempre pensato. Dovremmo parlarne di più."

"Stasera sono libero," she giggled.

Harry bit his lip tightly as he watched the exchange. He had no idea what they were saying, but he didn't really need to. As the glass door slid behind Luciana, he laughed, "Have you…"

"Oh yeah," Draco replied indifferently. "Like, two weeks ago. Why, you interested?"

"Um, _no_," Harry shook his head quickly, "Not at all."

Draco shrugged, "Your loss. Good lay that one is. Better than that Chang girl anyway. She was the one you were chasing after last year wasn't she?"

Harry seemed taken aback, "She - I - You slept with Cho Chang?"

"Indeed. Don't worry, not while she was dating you. _Way _too much baggage."

"We weren't dating," Harry insisted.

"Whatever." Malfoy threw his feet on the table and smirked, his blasé attitude at its finest.

Harry paused, once again not quite believing he was entering into this conversation. "Then when…?"

"Fourth year sometime? Late winter, early spring. I told you, it all runs together after a while."

"She was dating Cedric Diggory?"

Malfoy laughed, "You say that as if you expect me to care."

Harry groaned.

"I guess," Malfoy added casually, "considering what happened to him, it does seem a little inappropriate."

"Oh my - " Harry shook his head in disgust. "Malfoy, you are -"

"A horrible human being, I know," Draco interrupted. "Please, spare me your self-righteous Gryffindor repugnance and disapproval at my indulgence, chauvinism, and wicked lack of sexual mores. It won't make me feel guilty, I assure you."

Harry sighed and turned back to his work. He'd certainly expected their relationship to go to back to normal after the duel, but there wasn't any harm in hoping. Clearly he hoped too much.

To Harry's surprise, Draco continued absentmindedly, "And not because I just don't feel morally guilty under any circumstances…however true that may or may not be…It would just be hard to take seriously the opinion of a guy who, along with his best friend, is waiting far too patiently for one giant prude."

As Draco had expected, Harry paused for a minute to figure out what he meant, then took the bait. "_I don't like Hermione_," he exclaimed.

"Defensive there Potter," Malfoy smirked.

"She's my _best friend_."

"That's one way to look at it…"

"No," Harry began emphatically. "It's the only way to look at it. I don't have 'feelings' for her and neither does Ron."

At that, Draco threw his head back and laughed, "_Please_. Maybe - _Maybe _- under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol and the exposure to evidence of your engaging in lascivious behavior with _other_ members of the female gender, I could _possibly_ be prevailed upon to believe that you aren't attracted to Granger, but _WEASLEY_? He'd be less conspicuous if he walked around with a _sign _around his neck that said 'I want to fuck the Mu -"

"Oh _shut up_," Harry snapped.

"Again, defensive." The smirk on Draco's face widened; he was enjoying himself thoroughly.

Harry tried to turn back to the file on his desk, but he had to ask, "Wait, how many people _believe_ that Ron and I like Hermione?"

"How many people is…_all of Hogwarts_?"

"You're just being an ass Malfoy."

"Fine, don't believe me! Ask Bones. She's right over there. I'm sure she's far more familiar with Gryffindor gossip than I am."

Harry scoffed.

"No Potter," Draco insisted, "I don't think you get it. In Slytherin we actually have _bets_."

Harry's mouth fell open, "You're joking…"

"_Please_. I take my gambling very seriously. I've got 500 galleons on you by the way. Then 250 on neither of you. Don't really fancy Weaslby's chances in the long run."

"Wait - you - you guys - you guys actually _bet_ on who at Hogwarts is going to end up together?"

Draco shrugged, "We bet on other stuff too, but you _really _don't want to hear about those."

"Oh Merlin…" Harry didn't want to, but he couldn't help laughing.

"Yet another thing Merlin wouldn't care about…"

"Listen Malfoy. Let me make this clear: _I do not_ have a romantic interest in Hermione. Neither does Ron. He's my best friend. I'd know."

Draco snorted, "That's precisely why you _wouldn't_ know."

"What?"

"It's called competition."

Harry groaned, "You're _unbelievable_ you know that?"

"Yes as a matter of fact I do."

"Oh my G - "

"I'm being serious. No man with Weasley's lack of confidence is going to talk about his feelings to the one person he considers his biggest rival."

"Load of bull."

"_Please_. I barely know who Blaise or Nott or Warrington want to fuck in a given week, and we're all boastful, arrogant, and completely uninterested in forming lasting relationship based on deep, emotional bonds."

Against his better judgment, Harry laughed again, "Are Slytherins capable of those?"

"Well _I'm _not," Malfoy replied sarcastically.

Harry snorted and was about to retort, but at that moment, Kingsley entered the room, a solemn expression on his face.

"It was Potter's idea," Draco said, still sniggering.

"And everyone agreed to it," Harry added quickly and defensively. "And no one got hurt."

Kingsley was taken aback, "Wha - your stunt from yesterday? That…that's not…It's fine." There was a dull, stunned expression on the Auror's face. He was staring in front of him blankly, as if his mind was somewhere far from his body.

The smile fell of Harry's face, "Is something wrong Kingsley?"

The Auror swallowed heavily, "Yeah - yeah there is."

Harry felt his stomach sinking, "What happened?"

Kingsley stayed silent. Across the room, Malfoy slowly took his legs of the desk.

"_Kinglsey_," Harry stressed.

The Auror shook his head, "I - I don't really know _how _to say…You should sit down Harry."

Harry did no such thing, "_Kingsley, what happened_?"

Kingsley took another deep breath, "Albus Dumbledore's dead."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. It was pretty long and there was a lot going on and a lot of scenes, but I hope you found it interesting, exciting, mysterious, and even funny at times.

Also, disclaimer: I used Google Translate for about 95% of the Italian lines, so for those who actually speak Italian, I thoroughly apologize if I made a huge vocabulary or grammatical error.

Please, please review! Comments, suggestions, criticisms...all are appreciated and welcome, and I'll certainly answer any questions you have. Plus, comments make it more likely than I'll finish the next chapter quickly! Unfortunately I don't have an excerpt from the next chapter today, but prepare for the fallout following Kinglsey's announcement and for meeting Scrimgeour and Aberforth Dumbledore!


	4. Author's Note

Author's Note

WOW. It's been a LONG time. I can't entirely believe I'm actually on this website again.

Long story short, life caught up to me while I was writing this story; I got busy with school, jobs, family, etc. I've no "excuse." I just grew up some and stopped writing/reading fan fiction.

But this week I was moving and cleaning stuff out, and I found an old USB on which I had saved this story. A lot more of it was written/planned out than ever got uploaded. I read it and was basically hit with a wave of overwhelming nostalgia. I remember being very fond of this story and really enjoyed writing it, so I figured I might as well go over it, rewrite, revise (make it older and better written), and finally put up what I'd written, because why not. Maybe someone will enjoy it, and I can't bring myself to just throw it away.

Within the next few days, I'll actually publish the next chapter. I wanted to get an author's note out there so this story might be pushed back to the front of the listings and so that maybe more people can read what was already published (although some of the dialogue feels so cringeworthy now - oh foolish youth.)

Oh and in case anyone is curious/remembers my old stories, I have no idea where my copy of the old Draco/Hermione story I had written is. I don't even really remember how it ends. Sorry!

* * *

Update: Thought I'd give a preview of the next chapter! 

"Sit," Draco motioned, the annoyance in his voice subsiding a little. "What do you want? Wine? Brandy? Spiced rum?"

"Scotch," Blaise said, as he dropped slowly into an armchair next to the fireplace, still rubbing his neck.

"Scotch it is." Draco grabbed a bottle and two crystal glasses. "So, what are you doing here?"

"Well, I was coming back eventually you know," Blaise sniggered.

"I meant I thought you and your psychic brat friends weren't leaving Italy until tomorrow, at least."

Blaise glared at him. "Decided to take an earlier train."

Draco laughed as he joined his friend by the fireplace, handed him a glass, and slammed the bottle on a table between them. "Bet your mother loved that: your traveling around Europe _all by your lonesome_."

"She'll get over it," Blaise snorted, "And even if I did die, I think she's offed enough husbands to be just fine without my inheritance." He leaned back and took a long, deep sip of scotch, "Ahhhh…Now this, _this_ I've missed."

"I bet. Don't imagine that your uncle approves of the great Seers of the future clouding their Inner Eye with alcohol."

"Nothing but water, bread, porridge, and the occasional cold chicken all summer. I'm surprised I didn't fucking starve you know."

"You should have asked my mother where I was. I'm sure Mrs. Greengrass would have been ecstatic to feed you."

Blaise rolled his eyes, "Wasn't really in the mood. It's been a long summer. Plus I didn't think walking around this place alone hoping to find your mother without running into anyone else was the world's best idea."

"Wise."

"Speaking of, I think your uncle has a drinking problem."

"Uncle's brother," Draco corrected. "And in his defense, it runs in the family."

"I've noticed." Blaise sniggered as Draco raised his glass in a mock toast and began telling a family story about an adolescent Rabastan Lestrange drunkenly running through the gardens of the family's vacation home in Santorini without any clothes on, screaming about Cornish pixies. His mind, however, began to wander almost immediately. He tried to focus and keep his eyes fixed on the glass in front of him, but he couldn't dismiss his restlessness. Draco's words seemed to be coming from far away, and Blaise began fidgeting in his seat. Almost involuntarily, he turned to look behind him, through Draco's other sitting room to the door on the other side of the foyer. The third time he did it, he twisted back around quickly, downed the rest of his drink, and reached out for the bottle to refill.

"You alright there Zabini?" Draco asked cooly. He must have stopped talking a while ago. He was leaning back, one hand tapping his fingers on the arm of the seat, the other languidly holding his glass in the air, his eyes fixed on Blaise with a mixture of concern and suspicion.

Blaise avoided his glance for a moment. Then he clenched his jaw tightly and nodded toward the door.

Draco groaned, "You came back early because you needed to have one of _those_ conversations didn't you?"

"Draco…"

Draco groaned again and took out his wand. Blaise flinched as the heavy doors in the suite all slammed shut. "Imperturbatus," Draco muttered. He paused for the charm to set in place, then leaned forward and liberally filled his glass again. "Alright," he began brusquely, "what's on your mind?"

Blaise swallowed heavily. "Draco, I've - I've spent the past couple of weeks _completely disconnected_ from the rest of the world. No letters, no papers, no radio - not even a postcard. I didn't leave the Academy _grounds_ all summer."

"Great men suffer for their art," Draco said snidely.

Blaise ignored him, "I finally get back to the normal world of normal humans, and the first thing I see when I pick up a newspaper is an article on Albus Dumbledore's legacy coupled with _photographs from his funeral_."

"Not this again," Draco muttered.

"Took me all of ten minutes of throwing money at the Italians to let me on the next train home. What the fuck happened?"

Draco shrugged, "No idea."

Blaise snorted, "What do you mean, 'no idea'?"

"It's not exactly like anybody rushed to tell me Blaise."

"_Please_. No one ever needs to _tell_ you anything; you just manage to find out. It's a terrifying talent."

"Oh you flatter me."

"Come on Malfoy, you spent the better part of last year sneaking around trying to find out everything you could about this war and everyone in it. Don't even _try_ to te - "

"Perhaps, but I spent the better part of this _summer_ doing the Ministry's paperwork and trust me, their breathtaking incompetence makes that job a lot more time-consuming than it sounds."

"Your house is _Death Eater headquarters_."

"Alas. I've been living in London."

"WELL YOU'RE LIVING HERE NOW!"

"_Dammit Zabini_!" Draco slammed his glass against the table. "I. Don't. Know. _No one_ _knows_!"

Blaise's mouth froze open. "No one?"

Draco leaned forward. "The Ministry's an bureaucratic disaster that spends most of its time arresting petty burglars and shopwindow robbers to alleviate the public panic," he hissed. "Every member of the Order I've seen the past two weeks looks like they've been bludgeoned over the head with a broomstick. I may have had a decent opportunity to turn _Harry Potter_ into an alcoholic - "

"_What_?"

"Long story," Draco shook his head. "And to top all that off…not a _single_ Death Eater has claimed it. Not one."

Blaise shook his head, "Why?"

"I stayed in London when the news came out, didn't come home. I asked my mother and Rabastan about it. They said this place was in disarray for days. No one was bragging, no one said they'd done it…even the rejoicing was subdued because everyone was too confused and, you know what, they'd never admit it, but they were afraid too. Not one of them acted like they'd seen it coming. And the Dark Lord? He's been gone all summer, doing I'm-not-even-sure-Bella-or-Snape-know-quite-what. He came back for _one day_, the day before Dumbledore's funeral, to straighten everyone out. And_ even then_, not a single Death Eater - not the Dark Lord _himself_ - stepped up to claim that they'd killed him. Or that they knew who did. They just spent the day drinking and celebrating what looks to be a gigantic spot of luck."

"_Albus Dumbledore_ didn't just drop dead," Blaise breathed.

"Well, I agree, it's a little unlikely," Draco spat. "But _I _can't tell you who or what killed him."

"Could - could it have been a secret assignment? The Dark Lord privately asking someone to assassinate him?"

"That's possible. That's logical. Who knows?" Draco shrugged again. He'd resumed his blasé, sarcastic manner and was sipping at his scotch again without looking at Blaise.

"Or an accident, but - but how - "

"You know, it could've been an army of flobberworms; they're pretty dangerous little bugger - "

"_Draco_."

"_What_?" Draco snapped. "How many times do I need to repeat it: _I don't know_. And quite frankly, I don't _want_ to know. I haven't really been thinking about it, I don't have any burning desire to start, and I would suggest you do the same."

Blaise laughed incredulously, "Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy? Albus Dumbledore _himself_ is suddenly found dead and you, who if I recall loves almost nothing better than knowing everything about everyone's business, aren't the _least bit_ curious about it?"

"No," Draco stressed between gritted teeth. "I'm not. Because the more curious you get and the more you know, the more dangerous people are going to be interested. And since when do you kiss Albus Dumbledore's ass?"

Blaise ignored the question, "Come on, you _always want_ _to know more_."

"I want to live!" Draco smashed his glass down again and this time the alcohol rose up and splattered over the tabletop. "Wake up Zabini. You're not at your uncle's Academy anymore. All hell is about to break lose, and every single one of us is going be caught up in it. The only thing that interests me is making sure I'm left standing when it's over. I don't care that Albus Dumbledore's dead, and I don't care who's next, as long as it's not me. And I certainly don't have any intention of putting my neck on the line for the sake of 'curiosity.' If you're thinking of doing _anything _different then you're a bloody fool."

Blaise couldn't reply immediately. He stared at Draco in silence for a few minutes, his face frozen in disbelief. "Do you not want there to be a war?" he finally managed to ask.

Draco snorted, "That's a stupid question."

"Why, because I should already know the answer?"

"Because it's irrelevant. There's going to be a war, whether I or you or anyone else wants there to be or not."

Blaise decided there was no point in arguing. He shot Draco a frustrated glare and slumped low in his seat.

"Why do you care so much anyway?" Draco asked.

Blaise shook his head, "I don't know. It's - it's Dumbledore."

"I reiterate, since when do you kiss Albus Dumbledore's ass?"

"I'm not," Blaise protested. "I know the fawning over him is unwarrented. I know they've whitewashed his past."

"Not to mention his family's," Draco quipped. "Murder, _bestiality_…"

Blaise ignored him, "But still. He - he defeated Grindelwald Draco. He did things that - that no one before him had even imagined could be done. All the hero worship aside, he was a _massively_ powerful wizard."

Draco pursed his lips but didn't reply.

"And last time," Blaise continued, his voice strained. "Last time Hogwarts was the only place in England no one tried to touch. It was safe. They say - they say even _he_ was afraid of Dumbledore." Blaise flinched as the words came out of his mouth and nervously turned to check behind him again. He waited for Draco to say something. When he didn't, Blaise looked up at him apprehensively. Draco was watching him closely, a harsh but inscrutable expression on his face. It was like those cold grey eyes were staring right through him, and Blaise flinched again.

"I don't know, it's just…" he continued. "Albus Dumbledore, he was calm and assured and - and in charge and _powerful_. And he didn't panic, and he never seemed to be seconds away from going mad. Unlike everyone else. I guess - I guess somewhere in my mind I just _assumed_ he'd be at Hogwarts and that - that whatever insanity went on everywhere else, at least school would be _stable_. Or even, that regardless of everything, he - _he_ at least would be able to keep the worst insanity at bay. And God, I - I didn't like the man or admire him or - or even respect him, but picking up that newspaper and finding out that he was dead was like hearing that some restraint's been torn off and that now there's no one's who can - I don't know, it's unsettling. It's - it - " Blaise's voice cracked. He stared intently down at the floor. He could feel Draco's gaze still boring into him, but he couldn't bring himself to look up again.

"What did you See this summer Blaise?" Draco finally asked.

Blaise grimaced as he turned to his friend, who was still looking at him with that same cold analytic composure. Until then, he hadn't really realized how much he'd been counting on Draco to simply laugh, scoff, yell…anything but give him that look. "I - it doesn't matter," he mumbled.

Draco raised an eyebrow knowingly and Blaise once again looked around in anxiety, before shaking his head, "You know what. Forget it." He jumped out of his seat and hurried across the room, slamming one of the sets of doors open as he walked out.

"Blaise! Come on mate! No more jokes." Draco shouted. He sighed, grabbed the bottle of scotch, and followed his friend through the game room, down a brief corridor, and through his own large, elaborate bedroom. Blaise was leaning against the railing outside on the terrace, the uncomfortable, pained expression still on his face.

"What's going on?" Draco asked as he walked up to him.

"Just wanted some air," Blaise muttered.

"Don't give me that." Draco grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him slightly. "_What did you See_?"

Blaise shook him off. "No one we know or care about. Nothing you'd find interesting," he mumbled again.

"Try me."

Blaise sighed.

"_Blaise_. Blaise, it's _me_."

"I SAW PEOPLE DYING ALRIGHT," Blaise shouted. He swallowed heavily and his voice kept breaking as he continued. "Hundreds of them, and not just Muggles or Mudbloods either. I saw things burning en masse. I saw blood running through the streets. Literally - literally small rivers of it. I saw whole villages being wiped out. The lucky ones pulled out of their houses and just Avada Kedavra'ed. The others tortured until they couldn't scream anymore. And not only Crucio'ed. I - I saw magic I hadn't even imagined existed. I saw a man getting his skin peeled straight off. I saw bands of werewolves tearing people to shreds, Dementors sucking souls left and right, people going _mad_, people killing themselves and their children just to get out of the way. Wastelands _everywhere_. Bodies lining the sidewalks; bodies being dragged through the streets. I - I - " Blaise spat angrily and grabbed the bottle from Draco, taking a large swig of it before he continued, talking quickly now that he had the chance to let it all out, "I saw piles of corpses being gathered together and set alight. Everywhere just death. And panic. And starvation. And _screaming_. Until I'd have left the vision and I could still smell it and still hear it. And close my eyes at night and still see it." By then Blaise's words were just hollow, "All across the country, rich and poor, men, women, children, cities, hovels…anywhere, everywhere deaths and mutilations and rapes and horrors that don't even have names. And the worst part wasn't viewing it in my head or being haunted by it afterwards. It was knowing without any doubt that those things would inevitably happen to all those people. It was knowing all along that every single event was going to happen _exactly_ like I was Seeing it and that nothing and no one could change that, because if I was already Seeing it, that meant it was fate and you can't - you can't - " Blaise's voice broke again.

"You can't cheat fate," Draco whispered.

"Yeah. Yeah, you can't cheat fate." Blaise shook his head, "I - I guess I just want someone to snap me out of it and remind me that it's worth it."

"No you don't," Draco said. "You want someone who should be telling you that it's worth it to tell you that you're right."


	5. Chapter 3: In Memory of Albus Dumbledore

It's strange, what you ultimately remember in the aftermath of a huge shock. The line between reality and dreams, between the physical present and the ramblings of the mind, becomes blurred. The feelings are what stand out: the cold, stifling numbness that consumes the body and mind, like a stab in the heart, only more acute, a cold, single cube of ice falling down the spine, accompanied by the heaviness that hits the head and the pit that forms deep in the stomach. Other people, other objects...they become hazier, especially in that moment when you realize that someone whom you cared about, who cared about you or who you wish did, is gone forever.

And life begins to pass in simultaneously dizzying and slow motion: Kingsley repeating himself; Harry shaking and slowly sitting down in his chair; Draco's mouth closing slowly, his naturally pale skin becoming near translucent; Kingsley knocking on the door to the girls' desks and saying it again, and again, and again, as Susan burst into the tears and Luciana tried to understand what was happening: Albus Dumbledore was dead.

Even when looking back on it obsessively in the days to come, Harry would have no solid memory of what happened the rest of that day. It would always be just bits and pieces. Kinglsey had taken him back to Grimmauld Place immediately. He indistinctly remembered seeing the Auror at the door, grabbing a hold of his arm. He remembered sitting in the drawing room with the rest of the Order, almost every single member, even the ones he barely recognized, not one of them speaking, until Kingsley and Moody finally joined them. He remembered their saying something about the Ministry identifying a body that the Muggle authorities had found, about Scrimgeour and the Arctors being certain. Lupin screaming, demanding proof before storming out of the room, Tonks running after him. Mundungus Fletcher stammering about lost causes and spiraling into panic before Moody was forced to slap him silent.

Harry couldn't cry that night. He couldn't find the tears. Molly Weasley had cried enough for the lot of them that day anyway. He moved listlessly to the ground floor and sat at the bottom of the staircase, looking out toward the front door, unable to sleep, barely able to move, just waiting for Dumbledore to walk in, alive and well, ready to chastise them for worrying and wasting valuable time. Ron and Hermione knew well enough not to try bothering him, and they were overwhelmed with grief themselves. Hermione couldn't stop shaking and Ron's face was practically green. Tonks, Kingsley, and Moody all moved in and out of the building, whispering furiously about Ministry business. Hagrid burst in shouting and had to be held back by Lupin and three of the Weasley boys. Even Snape slithered in to consult furiously with Moody for an hour. But Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.

When the sun rose, Lupin finally tried to pull Harry off the staircase and urge him to go to bed. But he couldn't move, not even when Arthur Weasley came to help. Harry could barely do more than mutter toward them, and he certainly wasn't able to sleep.

They finally must have said something about the Ministry, because Harry vaguely recalled snapping that he wanted to go, anything to get out of there. He must have been insistent because, despite their objections and the shocked looks Hermione, Ron, and Ginny shot him, a few hours later, after having mechanically taken a shower and changed his clothes, he was walking back through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic building. There was a media storm in the Atrium. Clearly someone had leaked the story to the press. Or maybe they were just getting ready to hear Scrimgeour speak; the Minister was apparently planning to address the country. Arthur Weasley had said something about that.

They were so loud. There were so many microphones. And it was no better past the media. The Department of Magic Law Enforcement floor itself was packed. It looked as if every Auror and Arctor working for the Ministry either had been recalled or had simply left their posts that day. The faces were pale, fearful, shocked. Whispering everywhere. They were almost too preoccupied to even stare at Harry. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office himself, a man who was rarely spotted anywhere other than inside his office or out in the field, actually ran past them down the corridor, shouting angrily at anyone in his way and threatening to fire at least four Aurors before reaching the elevator. It was chaos.

Harry's ears were buzzing. And yet, all he could really hear were his own thoughts, the last conversation he'd had with Dumbledore playing again and again in his mind, how there was something Dumbledore had needed to tell him, to teach him. His mind barely registered Arthur Weasley telling him to take care, not to say anything to anyone...

Harry was so lost in his inner trance that when he finally entered the office and was accosted by Theodore Nott's brusque, grating voice as the boy paced quickly around Draco's desk, he almost fell over jumping backwards in surprise.

"Where's Malfoy?" Nott snapped. There was a twisted, eager look on his face. If Harry hadn't felt so numb, he'd have punched him. "You deaf Potter? Where's Malfoy?"

"Dunno," Harry somehow managed to mumble. He'd barely spoken over the past few hours; the words felt strange coming out of his mouth.

"Well isn't he usually here by now? Bones and the Italian chick were already heading out to the fitn - "

"I know nothing about Malfoy or where he goes or what he does."

Nott sneered, "Oh what's up Potter? Feeling bad about something?"

Harry glared in the general direction of the pacing, needling voice but didn't bother to reply. He spent the morning robotically flipping through files, reading over words without the ability to internalize any of their content, as Nott wheezed heavily and continued to pace around the office. His ears were buzzing. Dumbledore was dead. Albus Dumbledore, Dumbledore who had always had the answers, Dumbledore who even Voldemort was afraid of...

"_FINALLY_!" Nott shouted, as the door opened again. Harry tried to ignore the pair but Nott's voice was too grating.

"What the fuck are you doing here Theodore?" Draco grumbled.

"Draco is - why are you wearing shorts?"

"Because they're a rather standard and comfortable piece of male apparel Theodore. Why are you here?"

"At the Ministry? You don't wear shorts at the Ministry. "

"I went on a run."

"You go running at, like, 6 in the morning."

"At 5 actually."

"Fine, 5 in the morning."

"What exactly is your point?"

"You're a creature of habit. You went running _now_?"

"No, I went running at 5 in the morning."

"You've been running for almost 5 hours?"

"I was in the mood. Now what is it you want Nott?" Draco snapped.

"Oh right - is it true?"

"Excuse me..."

"It's all over the Ministry. Everyone's whisperi - everyone's saying th"-

"Everyone in this place talks too much. Go away and keep your mouth shut," Draco snapped angrily.

"But - "

"I mean it Nott. Get out of my sight and stop asking stupid questions."

"But - but if it's true, I mean this - this is _HUGE_ - it "

"I won't say it again..."

Nott rolled his eyes, "Come on Draco, it's Albus Dumbl - "

Suddenly, Draco swung around, grabbed Nott by the collar, and pushed him hard against the wall. "Merlin Dr - "

"I said shut up you weedy, needling inconsequential piece of shit," Draco hissed. "How daft can you be? Your father is in Azkaban. _My_ father is in Azkaban. Our lives are different now; they have become _complicated_. I will say this once: you will stop asking stupid questions, you will competently do your job in this place drawing an absolute minimum of attention to yourself and you will keep your pathetic head down. Have I made myself clear?"

Nott swallowed nervously and nodded.

"Now get out," Draco spat, pushing him away roughly.

Susan and Luciana stood dumbstruck in the doorway as Nott pushed past quickly.

"Wow," Susan breathed.

"Wasn't that your friend?" Luciana exclaimed.

"He doesn't have friends. He has minions."

"Can everyone just shut up about Malfoy's anger management problems?" Harry shouted. They were all so loud.

"Oh Harry..." Susan breathed in shock as she finally saw him. Her eyes were red and she looked like a mess. "Oh Harry..._how are you?"_

"I'm fine," Harry replied curtly.

"_Really_? Because if you need anyone to talk to Harry, I'll be he - "

"I'm good Susan."

"I'm a very good listen - "

Harry tried to keep his voice down, "Thanks Susan bu - "

"Girls," Draco interrupted, "I know you're both dying to see me half-naked and no one would blame you, but it'd probably be better if you go away and close the door behind you. Running a little low on time and lower on patience this morning, if you haven't noticed."

"Don't need to see it Malfoy," Susan mumbled, as Draco began stripping and changing into his standard black suit. She gave Harry a very sympathetic look as she and Luciana headed past to their side of the office.

Harry fell back to his thoughts. As the clock ticked onward, he felt his head throbbing more and heavily. "How are you feeling?" "Are you ok?" "How are you holding up?" "What are you going to do now?" "Everything alright?" "Do you want to talk about it?" That's what was about to happen. Everyone was still dealing with the news themselves. Ron, Hermione, the rest of the Order, they were all still in shock. All of them were still too busy trying to understand what had happened to focus their concern on him just yet . Most of the Ministry knew nothing with certitude; to them, it was just gossip, all one giant, awful, breathtaking rumor.

But soon, the initial surprise and horror would fall away, and all those questions would begin. The Aurors and Arctors would start walking by, appearing with random files again, just to ask questions, just to have a look at him. Molly Weasley would be beside herself asking if he was alright. The entire Order in fact, they'd all have their eyes on him. Hermione and Ron would be trying to comfort him every chance they got. Ron's jokes would become awkward; Hermione would start asking innocuous questions just so she could analyze his mental state. It would be worse than when Sirius had died, far worse. How he felt, how he was holding up, how he was planning to go on...

The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. The questions were all he could think about now. They'd be worst part. Everyone worried about him; everyone fearing he would be about to break. And he didn't want them to look at him that way, like he was weak, like he would fall apart. He didn't want to answer their questions.

"Malfoy," he blurted out suddenly.

Draco looked up from his files for a moment; his face seemed to freeze expressionlessly. If he had any compulsion to mock, however, he managed to restrain himself and merely grunted in reply.

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times nervously, as if unable to find the right words. "Um...I was wond...I mean, I was wond - "

"Spit it out Potter."

Harry shook his head, "I was wondering if that offer for a drink was still on the table." He winced as he heard the words come out of his mouth.

Draco's faced remained emotionless. "Of course it is," he said slowly, shutting closed a few folders and pushing papers aside. There was a lot on his desk; Harry realized he must have taken quite a bit of his own work yesterday. He might have thought to thank him had he not immediately felt so embarrassed at asking in the first place. "Any preference for when to have this little adventure?"

Harry shook his head quickly, "Whenever, um, whenever would be fine."

"Well then, any burning eagerness to hear what Scrimgeour's going to say in ten minutes?"

"Not at all."

"Indeed, I imagine we could use our imaginations to full effect," Draco replied breezily, ignoring Harry's tense tone. "Conveniently if we leave now the media circus upstairs will be otherwise occupied." He got up and headed toward the door, "Well, come on then Potter. The sooner the better."

Harry hesitated for only a moment.

"Where are you two going?" Susan asked loudly. Her face was pale and she looked like she'd been crying again. Clearly she and Luciana were listening to the radio. "The Minister's about to - "

"Bones, I'd tell you," Draco said, "but then you'd need to come up with a convincing lie for Kingsley and we both know you're bad at that. You two just sit tight. Listen to Scrimgeour."

"Don't worry about it Susan," Harry mumbled, as the two boys left the room. The Ministry hallways were empty now. Everyone must have gathered upstairs to listen to the Minister; even the press had been allowed deeper within the Ministry. Barely a soul passed by as they walked in silence together, and the few who did moved quickly on as if in a trance. Harry himself didn't even recognize they were standing in front of the Atrium's gilded exit fireplaces until Draco snapped his fingers in front of his face a couple of times.

"_Potter_. Come on, stay sharp. Floo Powder: Tommy's Black Medicine."

"Wha - Tommy's what?"

"Tommy's Black Medicine. Small little place off Piccadilly."

"Some random joint in London?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "Every pub on High Street'll be filled with _my_ friends and the Leaky Cauldron will be filled with, well, everyone. Unless busy and bustling is what you were going for. In which case, I suppose I could accommodate that, but I doubt it'll be pleasant. People are likely to recognize you."

Harry glared at him as harshly as he could muster but nevertheless grabbed some Floo Powder from the black marble bowls next to the fireplace.

"Good to know that you're still conscious enough to watch out for your safety though. This one time though, you can trust me, it's a wonderful pla-"

Harry ignored him and walked into the flames. His feet fell out from under him, he could feel himself spinning, and a moment later he stumbled onto the old wooden floor of a dark room that smelled deeply of booze, smoke, and any number of illegal herbs. There were a couple of other wizards in the tavern, but none looked up to see who'd entered. A few were playing cards, two hags in a corner were arguing passionately...most, however were crowded around a radio listening to what must have been the beginning of Scrimgeour's address. Behind him, Harry heard Draco tumble in.

"Hey Tommy," the Slytherin grumbled.

A skinny, greasy-haired man with leather-like skin and a heavily styled goatee turned toward them from behind the bar. "Now is that Draco Malf - "

Tommy froze as his eyes fell on Harry, and his mouth dropped open to reveal a set of yellowed, near rotting teeth.

"Tommy," Draco repeated coldly. "Table in the corner. And a set of Firewhiskey shots."

The bartender didn't move.

"What, have you gone deaf since last time I've seen you?"

Tommy managed to shake his head nervously and shut his mouth. "Nah sir, not deaf. This way." His eyes stayed fixated on Harry's scar as he walked them to a table in a darkly lit corner of the room. Even when Harry turned his head away, he could feel those beady little eyes still on him.

He stared at the floor until the bartender brought a tray of shotglasses toward them.

"Keep them coming," Draco ordered.

"Yes sir. Will do sir." Tommy stepped back but loitered next to their table.

Draco stared at him coldly, "That'll do Tommy."

"Of - of course."

Draco snorted with disgust and glared at the man until he'd scuttled away to a safe distance. Then he grabbed a glass and raised it toward Harry, "To...well, I guess not to health or fortune. To something anyway."

Harry didn't reply, just reached over and rapidly downed a shot before he could change his mind. He began to choke as the liquid burned down his throat, "_Damn_."

Draco smirked, "Firewhiskey shot. Magic little things: all the strength in a fraction of the volume, and yet not so strong that you can't have many. Drink up, you look like you need it."

Harry said nothing again, and for a long time the two sat in silence, lost to their own thoughts. The more he sat there, the more Harry felt numb inside, and not even the alcohol could make that go away, however warm and comfortably confounding it may have felt. He still couldn't find the tears. He couldn't find it in himself to grieve over Dumbledore, Dumbledore the man, who'd saved him so many times, who'd guided him over all these years, and who'd been a symbol to so many. He couldn't imagine him dead. And still, what he could hear loudest pounding in his head, what he could see before his mind's eyes, playing over and over again like a broken videotape, was Dumbledore in his office, talking to him about the prophecy, or Dumbledore at Grimmauld Place, promising to show and teach him so much that he needed to know. He hadn't had the chance to find out what that was, and he couldn't imagine what would happen next, how he could possible accomplish what he needed to now. He couldn't do it, not by himself. He didn't even know where to begin. He would never be able to kill Voldemort.

"This changes everything," he muttered absentmindedly.

Draco snorted, "No it doesn't."

Harry twisted around to face him. He'd almost forgotten the other boy was even there, although at this point he wasn't entirely sure it was because of the grief or because of the alcohol. They were almost done with a second set of drinks.

Draco raised his palms up innocently. "Sorry. I get that I'm only here because I'm one of the few people alive who doesn't give enough shits about you to ask if you're feeling alright. I'll shut up again. Let you wallow.."

"You - you can talk," Harry slurred. "What did you say again?"

Draco seemed to argue with himself for a moment about what to say before sighing and repeating, "I said it doesn't change everything."

"Of cou - of course it does. How couldn't - how could it no - "

"Oh relax." Draco spun his chair around to face Harry, slamming the front legs down on the seat as he leaned forward. He took the last glass of Firewhiskey and downed it. Tommy quickly shuffled over to replace their tray again. Draco didn't start speaking again until the bartender was far out of hearing reach.

"Albus Dumbledore dying?" he finally began, "That merely...takes a piece off the board. Sure it might be a useful piece, maybe the _most powerful_ piece. It might change the moves that the remaining pieces are able or willing to make. But ultimately, it's just ano - "

"He wasn't just anyone el - "

"It's just another piece," Draco insisted. "The game itself stays the same. And all the other pieces are still going to keep moving around, trying to win, just as they were before. Very few of the fundamentals change at all." He smirked, "I assume you've played chess, but if you'd prefer I can use a different metaphor."

Harry started to shake with anger. "This isn't a game," he spat.

"Of course it is," Draco said cooly. "It's war. War's just a game. The difference between the ones who win and the ones who lose is that the former know how to play better."

"Maybe to you," Harry spat. "It's not just a game to me, and it wasn't just a game to Dumbledore."

"Oh yes the great, noble Albus Dumbledore. Brilliant, accomplished wizard, savior of the magical world, beacon of morality, righteous man upholding every bloody Gryffindor standard, ground he walks on turns to gold and blah blah blah..."

"Don't you dare - "

"You really believe all that bullshit? You think that's all he was? A wise, fuzzy, pure-hearted grandfather-esque wizard who recited the school rules at the start of each year? You really think that man achieved all he did without recognizing the things that actually have to be done to win?"

"He was ten times the man you could ever be."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Not that difficult to achieve I assure you, but be that as it may, the man knew how to fight a war. He understood what it meant."

"He was a hero and a good man."

"He was a _general_."

"HE WAS ALL I HAD LEFT!" The few other wizards sitting in the bar turned to stare and Draco slowly lowered his head to the table. Harry tried to storm away but managed only to stumble into the table unsteadily a couple of times.

"Enough is enough," Draco hissed. "Sit down."

"I need to go," Harry mumbled as he tripped again.

"SIT. DOWN."

Harry froze and fell back down. "Is that your bossing Slytherins around voice?" he mumbled.

He reached out to take another drink, but Draco's hand shot out and pulled the tray out of his lazy reach. He slowly raised his head and stared at Harry coldly.

"Wha - "

"Be quiet," Draco spat, almost shaking with anger. He took two quick shots in succession before finally beginning in low, trembling voice, "I only plan on saying this once, so I suggest you pay as much attention as your addled mental state can now bring itself to and don't speak a _single_, accursed word."

Harry grimaced, "Alri - "

"Not. A. Word."

Harry looked drunkenly taken aback but nodded.

"This, this here has got to stop. Not the drinking. Every once in a while you are allowed a little drinking; you are permitted some time away from all those nagging, well-intentioned souls of which for some reason you are so terribly fond. But I have watched you for an entire summer, and that constant feeling of being so, so wronged by the world that you have, that constant feeling sorry for yourself...that there has to stop. That there is unhealthy. More importantly, it's unproductive. And clearly no one else has the stomach or the wits to tell you, so I will: Stop it already. Stop with all the teenage angst. Stop whining. Stop moping. Stop being so goddamn angry at everyone and everything that falls in your line of sight. Stop acting like a man that's already dead."

"I don - "

"I'm not finished. You know Potter, all those dead friends and that dead family you spend _so much_ time agonizing about? - Goddamn it, I said shut up and listen, so don't you dare open your mouth - They all died for you. Every one of them. They died believing that if you lived, you would become the one person who could actually _do_ something. And instead of honoring that sacrifice you sulk around, pissed off at the world, waffling between self-pity and this - this absurd eagerness to go ahead and martyr yourself just to prove that you're willing to do it. What good does that do _anyone_?"

Draco slapped the table, "GET OVER IT. GROW UP. Your life is hard. I get that; I do. You see, there are only three things in this world that I genuinely believe in, and one of them happens to be fate. And, unfortunately for you, fate apparently loathes you, because it's chosen _your_ life to be so miserable and _your_ soul to go through all that suffering and _your_ shoulders to bear that responsibility and _your_ future and _your_ happiness that have be sacrificed for everyone else's and your choice that feels taken away from you _and that sucks_. Your life, Potter, _sucks_. But clearly whatever little will be left of it will inevitably _continue to suck_. So I suggest that you find a way to deal, or you will end up dead very, very soon, without ever having stood a chance. Which for the record even I would find unfortunate, because it's no fun fighting something that can't even begin to fight back."

Draco leaned back. "_NOW_ I'm finished," he spat disgustedly.

Harry stared at him in shock, his face frozen in a half drunk, dumbfounded expression. "W - wow. _Wow_," he finally managed to mutter. "Tha - that was definitely your bossing Slytherins around voice."

Draco grunted, "You couldn't handle my bossing Slytherins around voice."

The two lapsed into silence one more time. By then, Scrimgeour had finished speaking and the room was filled with the low, buzzing tones of an incredibly untalented folk witch band. Harry wasn't sure how long he sat there, alone with his thoughts, drinking on occasion. It must have been a long while. Finally, Harry managed to get up tenuously. "The Floo Powder?"

"In a pot by the fireplace. Cost is on the house."

Harry grunted, "You just gonna sit there?"

"If I could, I'd consider sitting in a place like this for the rest of eternity."

"Of course you would," Harry mumbled, as he began walking toward the fireplace. A few feet later he ran into a chair.

"Hey Potter."

"Don't. Laugh. At-"

"Endure. You know I'm right. Grow up, and endure."

Harry cleared his throat, "Th - I guess, um, thank - "

"Don't mention it. Ever."

"Right. Of course not..."

"I'm serious Potter. This conversation? It stays between us."

Harry met Malfoy's serious gaze. "Yeah, I know." He hit two more chairs before reaching the fireplace, fumbling about with the Floo Powder, and managing to leave the room.

The green flames had scarcely vanished behind him before Draco shouted, "Tommy!"

The sleazy bartender, who'd been looking after Harry's stumbling figure as he'd left the room, hurried over. "Yah sir. Anything else sir?"

Draco opened his wallet and pulled out a stack of thin sheets of solid gold with a beautifully lettered number 100 etched into the corner.

"Galleon bills..." Tommy breathed, his small, beady eyes shining.

Draco counted out five and left them on the table. "You didn't see me, or anyone with me, today. You didn't hear anything. You were busy listening to the Minister of Magic."

"Undahstood sir." Tommy was practically salivating.

"You better," Draco growled, as he got up and strode furiously past the fireplace.

"Sir, that door heads out to Muggle Lond - "

"I know," Draco growled. He stormed down the street, keeping his head down and pushing forcefully past Muggles for several blocks, until the light at a huge intersection finally forced him to stop.

Finally, Draco looked up at the gathering clouds. "You're fucking welcome," he shouted angrily.

* * *

"_Harry!_" Mrs. Weasley screamed, jumping up from the kitchen table as Harry strode through the fireplace. "Oh my - where _have_ you been? Remus! Remus he's here! _Alastor_!"

Footsteps raced down the stairs as everyone that had been seated around the table stood up and alarmingly began speaking at once.

"Everyone stop shouting," Harry mumbled. He staggered into the room, narrowly avoiding walking into the doorpost.

"Harry we've been worried sick," Mrs. Weasley continued. "Kingsley was about to alert the Min - Arthur go run off and tell him that he's back"

"Where have you been boy?" Moody growled. "Bloody disappear for hours, drive us all insa -"

"It might not be him Alastor," Lupin said seriously. "We should check tha - "

"Of course it's me," Harry interrupted. "How else would I have gotten in here?"

"Harry you smell like a bar!" Hermione suddenly blurted.

Everyone froze. Mrs. Weasley gasped nervously. Ron leaned over and smelled the air next to Harry. "Ew..."

"Where exactly were you Harry?" Lupin finally asked.

"You - you definitely smell like a bar," Hermione continued mumbling. "Like - like hard liquor and - and secondhand smoke."

"Hermione..." Ginny muttered, glaring at her.

"I went for a drink," Harry tried to say as calmly and clearly as he could muster.

"Oh you went for a drink..." Moody mocked. "Just got up and left didn't you boy? I could skin you alive."

"You - you went drinking _alone_ Harry?" Hermione exclaimed.

"Shut up Hermione," Ginny hissed.

"Nope," Harry quipped. "Now if you guys want to stop interrogating me, I think I'd like to go to bed now."

Harry headed toward the staircase, but Lupin stopped him before he could walk up, grabbing him by both his shoulders. He looked him closely in the eyes, "Harry..."

Harry sighed, "I went drinking with Malfoy. It was fine."

The room fell silent again. "Ma - Malfoy?" Ron finally stammered. "_Draco_ Malfoy? Blonde? Pale, pointy face? Absolute _bastard_?"

"Ron don't speak that way!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.

"Only one we know isn't it?" Harry snapped. He tried to brush Remus off but the older wizard held on tightly.

"Wait a second here," Moody growled. "Draco Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy's son? You went drinking with Lucius Malfoy's son?"

"Harry _why_?" Arthur Weasley asked, the Floo Powder slipping out between his fingers.

"Arthur _go_," Molly snapped, before turning back to Harry. "But really Harry, why? Are you feeling alri - of course not, of course you're not feeling alright. Everyone you love dyin - Come sit; let me go get you some water."

"I'm _fine_," Harry growled.

"You went drinking with a Malfoy, of course you're not fine," Moody snapped. "And Merlin, you do smell like a bar."

"Some water, a cold shower, and a long, good night's sleep, that's what he needs," Molly said assuredly.

"I'm _right here_," Harry shouted angrily. "I'm standing right here. Talk _to_ me. I can take it. I AM STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE IT."

Everyone stopped speaking again and exchanged nervous glances. Harry's immediate impulse was to continue shouting, but Malfoy's words came back to him before he could start. He swallowed heavily and continued as calmly as he could, "I went drinking with Malfoy, because he's the only person I know who won't bother to ask me whether or not I'm alright, who won't look at me as if I'm about to break into a hundred little pieces from the pain of it all. You're right, I'm not fine. But I'm not any _less_ fine than any of you. I don't need to be any more protected or looked after or asked about than any of you. And I will be okay. I - I _have_ to be, and I will. And in the meantime, I would really, REALLY appreciate being left in some peace. Is that alright with everybody?"

The room went very silent.

Harry sighed, "And for the moment, if you don't mind, I really want some sleep. Goodnight."

He pushed past Lupin and rushed up the stairs.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted, as she got up to follow him.

"Let him go Hermione," Ron muttered, grabbing her arm.

"He's right," Lupin sighed.

"Remus!"

"He is Molly. He isn't a child."

"He is."

"Molly, he hasn't been a child for a very long time. He - he can't afford to be one anymore anyway. We should stop treating him like one."

They all went quiet again. Hermione buried her head in her hands and Moody angrily kicked over the nearest chair.

"Let him sleep it off," Lupin whispered, "We can talk in the morning."

* * *

"That one," Draco mumbled. He was slumped over the metal railing, reeking of hard liquor and smoke, tie undone, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes clouded over with the drug cocktail he'd spent the evening consuming and the sleep deprivation his body was under. His finger shook as he pointed to one of the girls in a trio dancing around the nearest pole.

"The brunette one?" the short, busty madam in the tight suit asked him.

"No, the blonde. Reddish blonde. With the tits."

"Karissa you mean. Good taste sir. Expensive though."

Draco slowly turned his head to look at her. "Do I look," he slurred, "like I care what her name is? Or how much she costs?"

The woman looked up and down Draco's perfectly cut suit and silk tie, pursed her lips in a greedy smile, and nodded curtly. As she walked away and motioned to the blonde, Draco sank down over the railing again.

* * *

Harry woke up early the following morning, his head heavy and his stomach churning violently. He almost fell over Ron's hand as he jumped out of the top bunk and rushed to the bathroom, and he spent the better part of that morning with his head in the toilet.

"Damn Harry," Fred said. "Who'd have thought you'd handle your liquor so badly?"

"Guess we can't use this bathroom for the next couple of hours. Or days," George sniggered.

"Thanks guys."

"Or weeks."

Harry groaned. After a while, he managed to get himself off the floor and take a cold shower. "I'll be ready to go soon," he muttered to Arthur Weasley as he entered the kitchen. "Just want to see if I can hold anything down.

"You really don't have to come to the Ministry again today you know Harry," Arthur said. "Kingsley made it very clear - "

"I'm fine," Harry muttered, forcing a thin smile. "I want to. It'll - it'll keep - it'll keep my mind busy."

"Are you su - "

"I'm positive," Harry said briskly. He sat down and stared at a slice of smoked ham, but he couldn't bring himself to eat it. Behind him, he could hear Molly whispering, "Absolutely ridiculous Arthur. Say something."

Tonks sat across from Harry and pushed a mug of something toward him, "I know it's a little late, but this'll help. I should know." She winked.

Harry took a sip and choked, "Ugh, this tastes bloody awful. What is it?"

"You don't want to know."

Harry groaned.

"Your head will thank me in a couple of hours. Coffee helps too."

Harry grunted.

"So, um, how are you feeling Harry? Besides, I guess, the hangover...and the smell...and the vomiting part..."

"Mrs. Weasley ask you to check in on me?"

Tonks grimaced. "Remus," she admitted.

"Well you can let him and everyone else know that, yes, I'm fine."

"Harry..."

"As fine as could be expected," he insisted.

Tonks leaned in and whispered, "You really went drinking with Malfoy?"

Harry choked on the drink again, "It's not _that_ big of a deal."

"It sort of is. I mean, I'd figured you two were getting along a little better lately but - "

"What do you want me to say Tonks?" Harry snapped, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Tonks sat back and didn't respond immediately. "Did he say anything?" she finally asked.

_Oh he said plenty_, Harry thought to himself.

"Harry?"

For a moment, Harry stared at her blankly. Then he shook his head, "Sorry, no, we just sat in silence. That was..sort of the point."

"Pity. I mean, I - I get it. But a Death Eater's son? If anyone's bound to hear something..."

"Nothing so far makes me think that he knows what happened," Harry clarified.

"I see..." Tonks said slowly. "Harry, I have to ask, you haven't even cri...are you honestly feeling alri - "

"Do we?" Harry interrupted. "Know what happened I mean?"

Tonks' face paled, and she gave Harry a nervous look.

"Tonks. Please."

She looked over her shoulder to make sure Molly and Arthur Weasley were still arguing. "No," she finally whispered. "M - muggle police found his body somewhere in Yorkshire. They, um, they put out a description for someone to recognize, and a - a retired old Ministry wizard apparently saw it in the newspaper and thought it, um, sounded familiar. He got in touch with someone he knew about it and, well, that's how we..."

"Found out," Harry completed for her.

"Yeah...I, um, I haven't seen him. Only Scrimgeour, Bones, Kingsley - the higher-ups you know - have. And his brother. But they um, they said that..." Tonks broke off.

"They said what?"

She took a deep breath, "His body's really battered Harry. Very - very bruised and bleeding and...burned...well, Kinglsey said it looked like he'd been through an explosion or, or been helplessly beaten or...He said it was really hard to, um, to see him broken that way..." Tonks shook her head, "Merlin, I want to go drink too. I can't believe he's really g -"

"And Voldemort?" Harry cut her off. "The Death Eaters?"

Tonks winced. "Snape says the Death Eaters seem pretty shellshocked. If any of them knew, whoever it was is keeping quiet. But that, um, that could've changed. Snape hasn't been back since the other night. "

Before Harry could argue that surely Voldemort had to have orchestrated Dumbledore's death, he was interrupted by Hermione and Ron loudly arguing as they walked down the stairs.

"Now is not the time Ron, alright." Hermione snapped. Her face was flushed as she entered the room, "Plus, I'm late already. And you will be too if you don't hurry up and the people at Mungo's already don't like you."

She paused when she saw Harry sitting at the table. "Hey," she said, her voice softening, "Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine," Harry insisted quickly. "I mean, my head hurts a little but other than that - "

"Alright," Hermione nodded a little too earnestly. "That's good. That's really good. Just, you know - oh Harry!" To his surprise, she suddenly rushed over and hugged him tightly without another word.

By the time Harry finally arrived at the Ministry - having had to dislodge a flustered, emotional Hermione off him with some difficulty, finish off Tonks' potion, and convince Mrs. Weasley that he was alright and wouldn't run off to a tavern with any Death Eater sons again - Draco was already there, sitting on his desk and staring at a chalkboard with his customary piles of folders around him. Despite however long he might have stayed out the night before, he looked completely put together, tie bar, cufflinks, and all perfectly in place. He spoke as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened either.

"Morning Potter," he smirked as he turned around. "How're you feeling today?"

"The world's too bright." Harry grunted. "How can you be so cheerful?"

"Lots of practice. I suggest cof - "

"Coffee, yeah I've been told," Harry interrupted. He sat down at his desk and looked at the copy of the Daily Prophet that had been thrown on top. A disgruntled photo of his own face looked up at him, occupying half the front page next to the large, bold headline: NOT THE CHOSEN ONE - THE ONLY ONE. "What's this?"

"You made the front page Potter. Figured you'd be interested."

"I'm not."

"Pity. It's positively inspirational."

Harry rolled his eyes but grudgingly began reading the article. It was a long, histrionic account of Harry's history with Voldemort - what was publicly known about it anyway - complete with a glowing characterization of Harry himself: diligence, ambition, intelligence, boldness and bravery, all described in the most hyperbolic of vocabulary. There was a good bit on his working at the Ministry too, how despite his young age he was diligently helping the Ministry find and capture the wizarding world's most dangerous criminals; it was, of course, described in so sensationalized a way that anyone reading it would probably envision Harry wrangling Death Eaters with his bare hands and then dragging them to Azkaban himself.

"Despite relentless waves of public criticism last year when his claims of Voldemort's return were widely mocked and rejected, and despite grotesque attacks on his personal character," Harry read aloud, "Harry Potter's unparalleled courag - Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me!" He threw the paper aside, "They were the ones doing the attacking! After all the trash they published last year, they actually have the nerve to put this out?!"

Draco smirked, "You don't like it? I for one was filled with unbridled hope as I read it."

"'Ministry sources describe Potter as' - Ministry sources? What bloody Ministry sources?"

"Well you are surrounded by them. Could've been anyone. Personally I think that weedy-looking character at Ministry Munchies might have leaked a few sto - "

"Oh shut up," Harry snapped, before groaning and slowly lowering his heavy, aching head to the desktop.

Draco sniggered, "Heavy is the head that wears the crown, O Chosen One."

"I'm not the Chosen One," Harry grumbled.

Draco snorted.

Harry raised his head. "I'm not," he insisted. "It's all fabricated media nonse..." His voice fell away. Draco had turned around to look at him with the same glare he'd had the day before, dark and knowing, as if it were piercing past all the bullshit right through to his soul and mind. It was downright creepy.

Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and looked away. As he did, an article squished in a corner of the _Prophet's_ front page caught his eye. "Skeeter's writing a book?!" he shouted, grabbing the paper back up and beginning to read aloud incredulously:

_In the wake of Albus Dumbledore's death, the Daily Prophet Press is pleased to announce it is accelerating the publication of Rita Skeeter's new book: The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Skeeter is an award-winning journalist and author of the best-selling biography Armando Dippet: Master or Moron? Her exposés are famous for uncovering the scandalous real lives of major public figures, and she promises her next book will be no different, "People will be shocked! The Albus Dumbledore story is legend, but when my rabid readers get their hands on my book, no one will ever think of him in the same way again. It will be a game-changer."_

"I've already read it Potter; no need to shout," Draco muttered absentmindedly. He had stood up and was shuffling through the papers around him furiously, something of a perplexed look on his face.

The Prophet will serialize excerpts from the book on a biweekly basis until its release, beginning after Albus Dumbledore's state funeral this weekend.

"The funeral..." Harry breathed. "I'd forgotten about the funeral..."

"Oh yes, now that'll be an excellent affair," Draco muttered. "Pompous and ostentatious, overly formal, orchestrated like clockwork from start to finish...I'm sure that's exactly how he would have wanted it. True to his wishes, in-keeping with his personality...Of course they'll all feel wonderful about themselves for doing it, self-righteous bastards that they are. How they manage not to suffocate under the weight of all that sanctimonious delusion baffles me."

"Malfoy, has anyone ever told you that you do this very annoying thing where you sort of seem to be talking to someone else but really you're rambling on to yourself underneath your breath?" Harry snapped. "If you have something to say, say it."

Draco didn't answer; he kept muttering to himself as he looked over his records.

"What do you mean?" Harry insisted.

Draco grunted, clearly no longer paying attention to him.

"_MALFOY_!"

"Oh settle down," he snapped. "It's a state funeral. They're honoring Dumbledore as a person of national significance, which means the Ministry's planning and paying for an immense ceremony full of pomp, circumstance, and melodrama and of course covered from start to finish by our ever-beloved press corps. They're handing out invitations like it's the season's hottest society event. Use your imagination Potter. It's going to be a circus."

"And I suppose you're not going to tell me how you know all of that either," Harry said angrily. The blasé demeanor with which Malfoy was able to discuss Dumbledore's death and funeral infuriated him and his whole enigmatic, all-knowing act was getting old too.

"Sure I can. Mother and I are already invited," Draco smiled wryly as he headed out of the room, "Oh and if you don't mind, when Kingsley comes in here to yell at me for what I suppose could not unreasonably be construed as an attempt to kidnap you, do make it clear to him that it was your idea in the first place, that you were were there of volition, free to leave at any time, so on, so forth."

Harry glared after him and spent the rest of the morning finishing up the last of that summer's paperwork.

Draco returned a while later pushing two more rolling shelves full of old, dusty files.

"You do realize you don't _actually_ work here?" Harry said.

Draco didn't answer. He spent the rest of the day pouring over them, muttering to himself at regular intervals, and not speaking to Harry again.

* * *

"Harry Potter's unparalleled courage in the face of this adversity was nothing short of remarkable, as he maintained the truth of his claims and even organized an extraordinary interview with the _Prophet's_ own Rita' - Come on, it wasn't his idea and it was organized by his friend! Blah blah...blah. 'While details of the events at the Department of Mysteries, which led to the arrest of numerous accused Death Eaters, remain undisclosed, the _Prophet's_ Ministry sources are adamant that Mr. Potter played an integral role in - But nothing about everyone who helped him, of course. Like all his friends who almost _died_. I was attacked by disembodied brains for Merlin's sake. But _no_, it's only Harry Potter that's the hero. Of course. 'And so it is on the shoulders of a brave fifteen-year old boy that the future of our - "

Ron snorted and finally threw aside the Daily Prophet in disgust. "What the bloody hell! It's not like he's a saint!"

He was on bandaging duty at Mungo's that morning, fourth floor, the Spell Damage area. It was quite possibly his least favorite job in the place, although it was difficult to pick the one task at the hospital he hated most. Ron's summer internship had not gone well. For starters, he hardly had a Healer's sensibility. The best interns were the thoughtful and sensitive ones who went above and beyond their assignments to spend time with the patients and their families. Ron's personality didn't exactly lend itself to those sorts of things. He'd been kicked out of rooms by families who found him too insensitive more times that summer than he could count. And it didn't help that he found most of the other tasks downright disgusting. Bandages and sores and vomit...He'd much rather have had an exciting Ministry job, but no, he had to clean dirty pans and wrap dressings around wounds.

"Because only the great Harry Potter is worthy of working at the Ministry. The _CHOSEN ONE_," he ranted.

"Kid, you have one serious bitterness problem."

"Bloody hell," Ron jumped up and dropped the tray he was holding. "Where did that come fro - "

"Over here kid."

Ron turned toward the voice behind him. It was coming from a longtime bedridden patient in the corner, someone who'd been there all summer, covered in bandages, and who'd barely ever seemed awake, much less capable of speaking.

"You - you talked!"

"Don't be so shocked kid; I remember how." The man spoke in a heavy Eastern European accent. "Come here. I need new bandages don't I?"

"Um, yeah. S - sorry I was getting to you." Ron picked his things up clumsily, walked over to the man, and picked up his chart. That was another thing he was bad at, remembering why the various patients were in Mungo's to begin with. He basically had to review their records afresh every day.

This man, identified only as Patient 748230, in keeping with Mungo's strict confidentiality policies, had been admitted to Mungo's at the start of June. He appeared to have been attacked by a combination of serious curses and jinxes that even the top healers hadn't been able to decipher yet. He'd had serious internal injuries and burns, was apparently now fully blind in one eye, and and had apparently even gone through a few violent psychotic breaks at the start of the summer.

Ron sat down and began removing the bandages off one of the man's arms, trying his best to avoid eye contact. Patients always made him feel uncomfortable. God, he hated this job.

"So, tell me more?"

"Wh - wha?"

"Come on. I haven't talked to anyone in weeks. You're supposed to make me feel better right? Talk to me about this guy you hate so much."

"I - I don't hate him," Ron insisted quickly. "He's my friend. My best friend. He's just - he's just - he's bloody Harry Potter."

"Ah, of course, the _great_ Harry Potter."

"Yeah...that's what everyone says."

"Conqueror of You-Know-Who."

"That's the one," Ron said curtly.

"Calling him 'The Chosen One' now are they?"

"Yes they are," Ron said between gritted teeth.

"You're jealous then."

"I'm not jealous," Ron snapped.

"Sure you're not, kid."

"I'm not! Listen," Ron insisted, "he's my friend. He's a good guy. It's just that, well, people worship him. They always have. It's like the very ground he walks on is...holy or something. But you know what? The things he's done? He's just...been lucky. That's it. He's not some supremely amazing wizard or anything. He's just lucky. It is _pure luck_ that You-Know-Who hasn't killed him already. Either that or the work of his _friends_. Who _never_ get any recognition. Even though without them, he'd have... Listen? That Battle in the Department of Mysteries? You - you probably haven't heard of it, you were in here already. But it was...basically some Death Eat - It doesn't matter what happened, the point is, without his friends who risked their lives for him, he'd be dead. And there wouldn't be a single Death Eater in Azkaban. And before tha - "

"Has he been stealing your woman too?:

"Wha - of course no - what does have to do with what I've b - I mean, I don - I don't have a woman okay. That isn't the point."

"Listen kid, young men like you only ever get as jealous as you are when young women are involved."

"There's no woman involved!" Ron snapped, as he got up angrily.

"Where are you going? You're not finished."

"I'll come back when you're asleep again," Ron grumbled.

"Oh no you aren't. I'll call your supervisor. You have to help me; I'm in pain."

Ron glared at the man murderously and slowly sat back down.

"So this young woman? She prefers Potter to you?"

"I'm not talking about this anymore," Ron grumbled.

"I'll take that as a yes..."

Ron glared at him again. The man had some nerve to pry into his personal life.

"Listen kid, my advice - "

"I'm not asking for your advice."

"My advice is that you need to prove yourself. In a way that's completely unrelated to dear Mr. Potter."

Ron grunted.

"See this is what I'm guessing; You two really are best friends. Spend all your time together. And so you happen to be suck in his shadow. And this - this girl that you like? She doesn't see you the way you'd like her to, because she's too busy seeing him."

"Okay, who the bloody hell do you think you - "

"I'm someone who's good at reading people kid. My job depends on it. And I'm telling you: the only way that girl's ever going to pay attention to you is if you grow a backbone, step out of his shadow, and become someone. That and having the balls to ask her out yourself. But more importantly, you have to become some great on your own merits."

"Great advice, thanks," Ron snapped. "Just have to defeat You-Know-Who a couple of times and I'm golden."

The old man chortled. He had a creepy laugh, extremely high-pitched and squeaky, like that of a giggling little girl. "Oh kid, that's adorable. You think heroics are the most impressive thing in the world don't you? Gryffindor I bet."

Ron glared at him again.

"You know, I like you kid. Let me help you out."

"Wh - what?"

"Let me help you," the man repeated. "If you seriously want to do right by yourself, and walk out of your friend's _impressive_ shadow, I can lend you a hand."

"Who the hell _are_ you? And why do you care? You just met me, and honestly, I'm bloody awful at this."

"Yes you are. Another piece of advice: whatever you do kid, don't go into healing."

"Very funny."

"But more importantly, you remind me of myself."

Ron snorted, "Seriously?"

"Kid I used to be a no one. I came from a dirt poor family. Literally. Somewhat like you I'm guessing. I grew up as a servant back on this little old farm in Russia. I slept in dirt and worked in dirt and the only thing I had to my name were the dirt-covered clothes on my back. And I was treated like _shit_. Ignored by a society where the grand, powerful, rich, famous names were the only ones that mattered. No one noticed me. No one cared, not women, not employers, no one. But you know what I did? I didn't stand around ranting at the world. I clawed my way up. I fought and I fought until I became someone. And now? Now kid, I am one of the richest men in Europe. No joke. And all those families with their mansions and their ancient gold? They're the ones jealous of me. They're in my shadow now."

"Okay..."

"But I'll admit it. I had help, on my way up. There were people that were willing to take a risk on me, to give me opportunities that I could seize. I've never forgotten them. And as part of me has always...wanted the chance to return that favor to someone."

Ron sat in silence for a moment, focusing on the man's bandages as thoughts raced through his head. "What're you offering?" he finally asked.

"I've been stuck in this bed a long time, and I expect I'll be stuck here a lot longer. I can barely talk, much less write, much less think. I still go in and out of consciousness you know? That's not good for my business. I don't even want to imagine how much trouble's been caused by my getting stuck in here. Impatient business partners, money lost, programs disorganized...I feel sicker just thinking about it. It can't continue. What I need is someone to help me. Be an assistant of sorts, someone working between me here in this bed and the people I need to contact. Write letters, transmit documents, do the sorts of things, communications mostly, some basic money things, that I can't because of my...condition. In short, I need someone to help carry out my basic business tasks. And in return, I can pay you. I can put you into contact with people that can help further your career. I can teach you things about business. And who knows? If you do a good job, maybe when you graduate, there might be something I can do to find you a...position that let's say you are better suited for than this."

When Ron didn't reply immediately, the man pressed, "Kid, if you want to be something other than a sidekick, you've got to take your chances. People like Harry Potter? They will have every opportunity in the world. It doesn't matter how skilled they are or not, how much help they get or not, how much they deserve it or not...His name opens doors by itself. For the rest of us? Life's not like that. Chances like that don't come to us. We've got to take the few we get. Now I can't - I can't promise you anything. I can't tell you that I'll make you rich or powerful or anything like that. But I can give you a shot. And if you work for it, genuinely work for it, not depend on _luck_ or _friends_...then you will start making something of _yourself_. Sooner than you realize, you'll be out of anyone's shadow. You'll be your own man. Something which, by the way, women tend to find rather impressi - "

"Alright," Ron interrupted. "I'll do it. I can work for you. Just let me know what you need me to do and when I should do it. I'll get it done."

The man laughed his creepy laugh again, "I love it. Ambition, confidence...that's what you need. We'll make a fine team; I'm sure of it."

Ron got up, "Listen, I have a lot of other beds to get around to this morning...unfortunately. And it'll probably take a while, because I'm - "

"Because you're awful at this. Yes, we've established that."

"Yeah...But - but I can come back later. If - if you want?"

"Good. Bring a quill and parchment with you. We'll talk business. Oh and kid? I suggest you don't let anyone know about our little partnership. Not yet anyway. Let's see how it works out first."

"Makes sense." Ron turned to leave, but a thought suddenly hit him. "Wait. Um, my name by the way is Ron. Ron Weasley. And you're...?"

The man smiled widely, "Alexander. Alexander Rizitsky."

* * *

On his last day at the Ministry, Harry was surprised to find himself actually feeling a little sad. Dumbledore, as usual, had been right: his time there had been good for him. In fact, he'd come to enjoy it: the chance to feel actively involved, even just a little; the lunches with Tonks or Susan or Luciana; the occasional run-ins with Seamus Finnigan, who was always ready with an amusing story from the Department of Magic Accident and Catastrophes, or Dean Thomas, who'd been working alongside the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and who had gathered a host of decent stories of his own; the training sessions that were actually helping him feel stronger; even Lynx's spastic, excessive excitable and annoying personality. The Arctor had in fact made a point to let Harry know several times that last day that they would see each other soon, no doubt about it.

He even felt like he'd miss Malfoy, or at least, the side of Malfoy he'd curiously come to see over the past few weeks, although of course he didn't like the idea of admitting that to himself. The other boy hadn't spoken to him since their conversation the morning before. He was still completely absorbed in hundreds of ledgers and records that were now almost taking up their entire office space. In fact, given by the number of Ministry Munchies coffee cups on his desk and the fact that he seemed to be uncharacteristically wearing the same suit and tie as the day before, Harry imagined he'd actually spent the previous night there. But clearly, whatever impulse had driven him to speak out so strongly at the pub was one he was completely capable of burying as if it had never existed in the least. Harry's one attempt to engage Malfoy in conversation again, asking him if he was planning to come to Dumbledore's funeral, was met with a curt, "Shut up Potter. I'm busy."

He didn't even bother to turn around when Aramis and Hector entered the room. The two Arctors had kept their distance from Harry and Draco since the duel, and although plenty of Ministry employees had popped in that day to compliment and say farewell to Harry, and of course to cast Malfoy one last, wary gaze, it was rather shocking to see that particular pair. "They actually took their precious time to say goodbye to you?" Tonks would say later. "Damn. You must have actually impressed the assholes."

"Hey Potter," Aramis said, "Last day we hear."

"That's right."

Hector shrugged, "Pity. If you stuck around a little longer maybe you'd have learned a thing or two."

"Well, at least I didn't need to learn anything to get the better of you two."

To his surprise, Aramis laughed, "You know what Potter? You're alright."

"We like you actually."

"You have spirit."

"You do. Maybe in a year or two, you might actually join us. You'd fit right in."

"If you live of course."

Harry suppressed a smile. He figured that was about as much of a compliment as he could expect to get from them. "You know that's weird right?" he said instead, "The whole finishing each other's sentences bit."

Aramis laughed again, "It's a partners thing. You wait."

"When you get one - if you get that far - you'll know him about as well as you know yourself."

"Or her, I guess."

"There aren't that many hers though."

At that point, Hector turned to Malfoy, who'd been steadfastly ignoring them. He was furiously writing something down. "He realizes he doesn't actually work here, right?" Hector said.

"I don't think he cares," Harry said. "Seems to be more of an obsessive thing."

"Unlike the lot of you," Malfoy finally responded, "I actually like to _be_ useful, instead of just talking about it."

Aramis approached him, "You know Malfoy, I pulled your physical file again."

"Did you now?" Draco drawled, as he continued to focus on the documents in front of him instead of the two Arctors.

"You're a decent little soldier. More than decent actually. I'll admit; I wasn't half this strong at your age."

"I try."

"I'm glad."

"Are you now?"

"This way, it'll be a lot more fun when I meet you on the other side."

Draco finally looked up, and his lips folded into their customary smirk, "You know what Aramis? I'll keep that mind. And when the day comes, I'll make sure to pay special attention to you. Malfoy's honor."

"I didn't know that meant anything anymore."

Draco gave a fake laugh, then turned his back to them to sit on his desk and continue pouring over files. He hadn't moved from that spot when Kingsley came in a few hours later.

"Malfoy, where are your fellow interns?"

Draco didn't look up, "Lynx, Toby, and some of the other guys are taking them out for lunch."

"Do you know when they'll be back?"

"No idea."

"You weren't invited?"

"I wasn't interested in going."

"Of course not."

As Kingsley turned to leave, Draco cleared his throat, "Can I have a word?"

"I'm very busy Malfoy. I'll be back in an hour."

"To read a formal goodbye, encourage everyone - other than myself of course - to seek a Ministry post in the future, and hand out the guidelines for obtaining official recommendations? Like any of that will be useful in a few months."

Kingsley sighed in resignation, "Alright, I assume you've devised a way for us to convict Mr. Rizitsky and are prepared to brag. Go ahead. I can listen."

"Rizitsky? Oh right. Of course." Draco shuffled through the papers on his desk, pulled out a piece of parchment from underneath a large pile, and began explaining quickly, "The man has five open contracts with the Ministry for a variety of industrial and advertisement purposes, two of which are well on their way toward completion, one of which is still in the preproduction phase and two of which have been agreed upon but do not appear to have been initiated to any degree as of yet; they exist merely on paper and of course in bank accounts. The scope and parameters of the Ministry's agreements with him are quite well specified in the paper record, which finally represents some monetary sense from you lot. I've collected all that documentation together and have mapped out to the best of my ability how that money is stored in relation to Rizitsky's other accounts and financial interests. All you lot have to do is survey the various accounts closely, especially for the three projects which haven't been fully initiated yet, and wait for Rizitsky to shuttle the money to something outside the contractual scope you have specified with him, which he will do sooner or later because he owes a lot of money to a lot of dangerous people and in any case because the man wouldn't be able to help himself. That should give you enough legal cause to search through the rest of his finances and allow you to introduce all the excellent illegally obtained evidence that I've put together with such skill. And then congrats you've got yourself a front page-worthy investigative Ministry success story to comfort the public and distract them from your very real law enforcement inadequacies. It's all here on this roll of parchment and in, let's see, _this_ folder here. No this one. This folder. Any idiot would be able to make sense of it."

Kinglsey clapped sarcastically, "Good job. All that hard work, you deserve a medal."

"I'll keep your overwhelming appreciation in mind. But Rizitsky wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Goddammit Malfoy, I don't have the time for your games!"

"Come now Shacklebolt," Draco said cooly, "You've put up with me all summer; you can manage for a few more minutes. And you're _really_ going to want to hear what I have to tell you."

Kingsley swallowed heavily, "_Alright_. What is it?"

"Close the door."

Kingsley stared at Draco closely as he shut the door behind him. "Malfoy, if you'd like to tell me something you know abou - "

"If I had anything to say about the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters that I wanted the Ministry to know," Draco interrupted, "I'd go straight to the Minister himself. And if I had anything to say that I wanted someone who could actually do something about it to know, I'd talk to Alastor Moody, because I presume he's going to be formally in charge of the Order of the Phoenix now that Albus Dumbledore's dead. No disrespect meant to you of course. I'm sure you rank highly in both organizations nonetheless."

Kinglsey leaned against the doorway, "Well then..."

"Let me make something clear Shacklebolt: I want to live. Life is full of...sex, alcohol, and money, all of which I have a lot of and happen to enjoy. And unlike my father, I am not a fool. I understand that before money, connections, or even magical ability, what makes the biggest difference between whether you live or die, even between whether or not you're free or in a jail cell, is the information that you have and the people with whom you choose to share it. So, while I have nothing to tell you about the Death Eaters, I do have _something_ to tell you, because I believe you'll find it interesting and because I think that sometime in the future you will remember that I did."

"I'm listening..."

Draco cleared his throat, "When I was looking through the Ministry's books for the details of your contracts with Rizitsky, I came across something that I thought was rather curious. And given the...state of things these past couple of days, I figured no one would notice if I pulled a few more files - which for the record I do understand I was not authorized to do, and if when I finish you don't feel it was worthwhile, you have my word that I will sit here respectfully while you yell."

Kingsley glared at him but said nothing, and Draco quickly continued.

"So for the past few days, I've looked nonstop at over thirty years' worth of numbers, and I have checked and I have double-checked, and I've tried, with no success whatsoever, to envision a reasonable explanation...My point being, I am certain that when I say this is extremely strange and troublesome, it's because that's true, not because I missed something."

"What's strange and troublesome?"

"Ever year, the Ministry brings in significant quantities of money that simply disappear without a trace."

Kinglsey rolled his eyes, "You said it yourself Malfoy, the Ministry can barely hold on to the same accountants and economists for a handful of months. A couple of clerical errors here and there over is hardly shocking. At worst you've uncovered evidence of consistent corruption, which as despicable as it is - "

"No, no," Draco interrupted, "I wasn't clear. I'm not saying there's a little money missing here and there. I am saying that between the amount of money the Ministry collects and the amount it distributes to various departments, channels to investments and projects, saves, and does whatever else on official record, even _with_ a generous leeway permitted for standard corruption practices, there is a bulk difference of _exactly_ 500,000 galleons, no more and no less, _every_ single year for at least the past three _decades_. Perhaps longer. Regardless of who was doing the paperwork. Regardless of who was Minister of Magic. Regardless of whether or not there was any war."

The smirk slowly fell from Kingsley's face, "Holy..."

"It's no clerical error." Draco handed the Auror a folder, "It adds up to over 15 million galleons. That is the kind of money I do not laugh at."

For a few minutes, Kingsley stood in silence, skimming over Draco's notes. Then he cleared his throat, "Have you spoken with anyone else about this?"

Draco smirked, "As I said, I thought you would find it interesting. At present, I can't imagine anyone else who would."

Kingsley glared at him suspiciously.

"Malfoy's honor."

"That's comforting."

"Everyone keeps saying that. Frankly, I'm offended. And after all the work I've done for you this summer I think I've earned a little gratit - "

"Enough," Kingsley raised a hand, "You're right, this is...disturbing. You've - you've done good work here. I ought to thank you for bringing it to my attention. So..thank you."

"That was difficult for you wasn't it?"

Kinglsey ignored that. "I would also ask you not to tell anyone else about this, if I didn't already know you immediately would if were it ever in your interest to do so."

Draco laughed and slowly shook his head, "My, my, you do think so little of me don't you?"

"That is actually not true." Kingsley shut the folder and smiled thinly, "You know, I saw your file Malfoy - "

"Oh for the love of - is _nothing_ in this building private?"

"The one you submitted to apply for this job, the one Albus Dumbledore himself came her to vouch for. You got an absurd amount of OWLs. You are the second best in your class, after Hermione Granger, and we both know you must do about a quarter of the work and studying she does, between drinking, smoking, and whoring yourself around the castle - oh don't pretend to be offended. I was a student too; I remember your type. You speak _thirteen_ foreign languages fluently, and those are the non-magical ones. I'm guessing you have a flair for Gobbledegook too, what with all your money."

"And Mermish, but I'm a little rusty and I don't like to brag."

"You've done work here - I however begrudgingly have to admit - that men twice your age have not and would not be capable of. And if I understand the financial supplements of the Prophet at all, at the age of sixteen, having been trusted with full control over your family's financial affairs, during wartime and with your last name about as disgraced as it ever could be, you have made more money, more quickly than Lucius had for a very long time. What I actually think of you, Malfoy, is that you are a very intelligent young man, and certainly not a fool."

"I'm flattered," Draco leaned back and threw his feet over the desk, "Is this the part where you tell me that I am young and have so much potential, and that I can still choose to turn away from the darkness for which I seem to be fated?"

"This is the part where I tell you that if you ever wanted to, you'd be welcome."

There was something very discomforting in the cold, eerily calm way Draco laughed, and it immediately sent a shiver down Kingsley's back. "Don't hold your breath."

* * *

Dumbledore's funeral was scheduled for that Saturday. In a somewhat ironic twist of fortune, it fell on a beautiful day, one of those last of summer where the sky is perfectly clear, the sun shines warmly but doesn't burn, a slight breeze cools the air, and all the world looks beautiful and fresh and green.

The good weather pissed Harry off, as he got dressed in his Gryffindor robes that morning (he didn't want to just wear black; it didn't feel right.) He thought that nature itself should have been mourning. Dark clouds and pouring rain and thunderstorms and flooding: that would've been appropriate.

The Order had spent the previous evening together, almost every member. Deadalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, and Sturgis Podmore spent the night relating surprisingly amusing stories of a younger Albus Dumbledore around the time of the First Order. Mundungus Fletcher managed to refrain from robbing anyone for once, at least as far as anyone could tell. Even McGonagall had spent the night, uncharacteristically helping Molly Weasley and Hestia Jones prepare and serve dinner. When Harry didn't put much on his plate, she actually walked over to him, wordlessly, and piled it with mashed potatoes and chicken as she grabbed his shoulder firmly in a gesture of comfort. Harry couldn't bring himself to argue with her. The following morning, however, they all left for the funeral in groups that wouldn't arouse suspicion: Hogwarts teachers together, Ministry officials, the Weasleys along with Harry and Hermione...

For the past week, the Ministry had made a significant effort to establish Portkeys throughout the country that could take the invitees to the funeral location. According to Kingsley, it was an effort almost on par to the that required to service the Quidditch World Cup and, for the Ministry, its achievement was both something of a miracle and a point of pride. "Ignore the posturing," he warned before leaving that morning. "There'll be a lot of it."

Yet when the Portkey, this time taking the form of an old, crushed soup can, let them go and Harry saw where the funeral was being held, he couldn't help the knot from forming in his throat. It was over the shore of the Black Lake, with a beautiful cliffside view of a very familiar castle towering in the background.

"He must have wanted to be buried near Hogwarts," Hermione breathed. She was fighting back tears again. Instinctively, both Ron and Harry moved to grab her hand. It would've been an awkward moment had Mr. Weasley not ushered them all on. Hermione blushed.

The Ministry had planned the affair meticulously. All the Portkeys delivered guests to a single reception area, which was decorated with slabs of marble into which had been carved both Dumbledore's biographical information and an impressive, abstract portrait of him, commissioned by one of the Wizarding England's most famous modern artists as Harry would later read in the _Daily Prophet_. Guests were led by the biographical slabs to a single security entrance, over which a number of Ministry officials carefully stood guard. They included Gawain Robards himself, as well as Dawlish, Savage, and Proudfoot, among the Ministry's most trust Aurors. Alongside this was a short, unshaven man Harry recognized as Eric Munch, a Ministry watchwizard, and a skinny, frazzled young woman that was apparently serving as the Substitute Undersecretary to the Ministry of Magic in Dolores Umbridge's "unfortunate" absence. Mrs. Weasley made sure to let everyone know that Percy was somewhere there as well, handling important matters for the Minister's office. Amelia Bones herself made a point of shaking hands with every guest.

Past the security checkpoint, the Ministry had arranged hundreds of marble chairs with golden detailing and an elaborate reception area on the far side for after the funeral. The chairs were set up in rows ascending the steepest part of the cliff. Beautiful white and gold flowers flanked each row, and twinkling lights had been placed both amongst their leaves and those of the trees from the Forest that flanked the area as a whole. The view, of course, was beautiful from every angle, and every vantage point gave a decent view of the gorgeous marble coffin bearing Dumbledore's corpse below them. Nonetheless, it was clear that every invitee's seat had been assigned according to whatever criteria the Ministry had deemed. Harry couldn't even begin to recognize most of the people present. Right alongside the coffin, they'd set up a large marble platform with seats for foreign dignitaries and other "important" guests. Those positions of honor had been granted not only to the Ministry's foremost delegation - Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour, former Minister Cornelius Fudge, and others - but also some of the most famous attendees: Celestina Warbeck; all eight band members of the Weird Sisters; a handful of players from the English National Quidditch team; a man who Harry was sure was a famous comedian...The marble platform, in short, was clearly reserved not for those who may have been close to Dumbledore the man, but for the most photographable of the Ministry's guests. Harry was pretty sure that not even Dumbledore's elusive brother was up there.

"From what I've heard," Lupin would tell him that evening, "the man's an alcoholic who's found himself on the wrong side of the law on more than one occasion. It doesn't surprise me that the Ministry didn't feel comfortable putting him on display."

"But wouldn't he want to be there? They're brothers."

"I'm sure he was...present. Somewhere. But by all accounts, he and Dumbledore had a - how do I say this? - a _complicated_ relationship."

"What do you mean by complicated?"

"I'm not sure Harry. Albus never...I wasn't someone he ever shared those details with."

The Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry had been seated in one of the last rows, where the coffin was almost nothing more than a speck below them. Despite Arthur Weasley's position at the Ministry, it was further back than Tonks and the other Aurors were standing, and even further back than the Hogwarts teachers. Ginny had to sit on Fred's lap just to get a view, her own seat obstructed by the large branches of pine tree. Harry had actually received a personal invitation to sit right alongside the Minister of Magic, but he'd declined it immediately. "I'm not interested in helping their propaganda," he'd snapped when Kinglsey handed him the invitation. This was where he belonged.

Nevertheless, Harry couldn't help feeling angry. This was the only chance he had to say goodbye to Dumbledore, and instead of being alongside him, he was shuffled to the back in favor of famous names, the presence of which served only the Ministry feel grander about themselves. He'd never even gotten to see Dumbledore's body. It was hardly a way to say goodbye.

_We knew him_ Harry thought. _We cared about him, fought alongside him...we KNEW him. The Order's like a family. And we're pushed aside in favor of the Ministry of Magic's favorite poster children. How's that fair?_

"He'd have hated this," Harry said, to no one in particular.

Meanwhile, Draco could feel the eyes of every witch and wizard he passed boring into him as he approached the Ministry's security checkpoint. Their indignation that the son of an imprisoned Death Eater and vocal advocate of pureblood superiority had the gall to attend the great Albus Dumbledore's funeral was written all over their tear-stained faces. A few audibly hissed and muttered insults as he passed. Had he been in a better mood, Draco would have reveled in the hatred, even been tempted to laugh. Instead he pushed angrily through the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared make eye contact and trying to ignore the ominous, lead-weight knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach.

The Ministry officials at the entrance shuffled uncomfortably when they saw Draco, and a few of them didn't even make an effort to hide their disgust. Gawain Robards shot him a particularly nasty look.

"Morning," Draco began glibly. "I must congratulate you on being able to organize such a lovely affair. It's comforting to know that our nation can still safely come together in such a way, even if it is under...sombre circumstances. I'm sure ceremony itself will be an equally impressive tribute. Oh and of course, my mother and I both thank you for the invitations. She apologies she couldn't be here today; unfortunately, she happens to be feeling unwell."

"I'm sure she is," Savage muttered.

Amelia Bones finally reached forward to shake his hand. "Pleasure to see you again Malfoy," she said, in a voice that made it clear that she wasn't remotely pleased to see him and felt this exercise of forced, polite formalities was all but downright offensive to Dumbledore's very memory.

Draco turned toward Dawlish to force a bit more Ministry-related smalltalk before trying to lose himself into the crowd with as much anonymity as his family's reputation and highly recognizable physical features would allow, when a gruff voice suddenly barked, "Malfoy? MALFOY?"

A tall, thin old man with bright blue eyes and long stringy grey hair still soiled with dirt and grease, ghastly dressed in thin, tattered black robes, stormed forward, "What the bloody hell is he doing here?!"

Draco's face froze and the thin smile immediately wiped off his face. He could feel the knot in his stomach tightening.

"Aberforth, you agreed to a state funeral," Bones mumbled. "We had to invite him. His ancestors have practically built the Ministry."

Dumbledore's brother ignored her. His face was twisted and his body shook with anger as he spat, "How dare ya show yar face here today? After everything ya'v - after _EVERYTHING_ - ya come here today with that - that _despicable_ grin on yar face and ya pretend tha - how can - how dare ya?"

"Lower your voice," Bones hissed again, "You're making a scen - "

"HOW DARE YA?" Aberforth screamed and lunged toward Draco. Dawlish and Robards immediately jumped forward to restrain him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. Draco didn't move.

"Come on Aberforth, we don't want to curse you," Robards snapped as Dumbledore's younger brother struggled against them.

"How dare ya?" Aberforth repeated, "Ya come show your sniveling, worthless face - "

"Aberforth!" Bones exclaimed, "He's _sixteen_. He's a _child!"_

"He's not a child. He's not a man, he's not an heir, he's nothing. NOTHING. Cowardly, miserable, selfish unforgivable little SHIT."

"_Aberforth_!"

"Get out," Aberforth spat. "Get out of my sight. Ya don't belong here. I don't want ya _near_ here today. I don't want - _NEVER._ I _never_ want to see you again you damned little..."

Aberforth moved to attack Draco again and Proudfoot rushed to help Robards and Dawlish restrain him. He took out his wand and placed it next to Aberforth's neck. "Don't do this," he hissed.

Draco himself still hadn't flinched; he was just staring back at Aberforth stonily, daggers in his eyes. Savage moved closer toward him anyway, clearly prepared to jump between Draco and the older wizard if necessary.

"Get out! Get out, get out, GET OUT!" Aberforth continued screaming. He struggled unsuccessfully against the Aurors again then suddenly reached in his pocket for his wand. The three Aurors grabbed him more tightly and Dawlish managed to wrench the wand out of his hand. "Now's not the time," he hissed.

Amelia Bones looked horrified, "Aberforth, it's your brother's funeral! This isn't the tim - oh dear!"

A beautiful crimson and gold phoenix had suddenly flown down into the midst of their commotion, its large beating wings forcing both Bones and Savage to jump out of the way. Fawkes, seemingly ignoring the crowd and their noise and scuffling, flew right in front of Draco before letting out a single guttural, mournful cry.

In an almost reflex movement, Draco's arm jutted forward for the phoenix to settle on. By then they had all fallen still and silent. It was an extraordinary sight: the stunning, large scarlet bird resting almost weightlessly on Draco Malfoy's arm. Fawkes didn't once turn away from him; the phoenix almost seemed to be looking right into his eyes.

"What the..." Savage breathed, exchanging a confused and suspicious look with Dawlish and Robards.

It was Aberforth Dumbledore who broke the surreal silence with a noise that lay somewhere between a groan and a cry. "Drac - "

"Oh for the love of - can someone get this bird off me?" Draco finally snapped, shaking Fawkes off his arm and then brushing him away testily. Plastering a sneer on his face again, he quickly continued, "Well I'd say this has gone on for long enough. I can settle all the trouble very easily: I've no problem leaving. After all, Aberforth here has quite the reputation, and I for one wouldn't want my nose broken. I'm rather fond of it." He nodded curtly toward the Ministry officials and started to leave before seemingly changing his mind and leaning in toward Aberforth to finally address him directly. "So sorry for your loss," he hissed.

Surprisingly, Aberforth managed not to lunge at him again, even though at that point Savage looked like he just might himself. The Aurors waited until Draco was far removed before they let the older wizard wiggle free.

"Move along, there's nothing nothing to see here," Proudfoot shouted as he and Dawlish began to disperse the crowd of shocked passerby that had gathered around the scene.

"For the love of Merlin, what was that?" Robards barked. "We could arrest you for that display!"

"Then arrest me," Aberforth spat. He was staring after Draco intently, and when he finally turned to look at the Ministry officials, his voice was filled with bitterness, "Ya lot are having a fancy party here. Making yarselves feel better. Making yarselves feel proud and honorable. I'm just burying by brother. I don't have to explain anything today. Not to ya."

* * *

Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys didn't hear a word of the commotion, nor did they see Aberforth Dumbledore once that day. They merely waited in silence for the ceremony to start.

It was an impressive affair once it began in earnest, that much was true. A small, tufty-haired official dressed in shiny black robes presided over the proceedings on behalf of the Ministry and he spoke with great eloquence about Albus Dumbledore's life and accomplishments. There were fireworks and a live orchestra, hidden somewhere in the trees behind them, even debuted a symphonic composition dedicated to Dumbledore's memory.

The official also made way for several other Ministry member to speak throughout the ceremony. Scrimgeour gave a decent tribute, and even Fudge acquitted himself well, despite conveniently ignoring his own significant shortcomings and the past year of his relationship with Dumbledore. It was the other speeches Harry couldn't sit through, random Ministry employees and foreign personalities, whom Harry would have bet anything had barely interacted with Dumbledore on a personal level, relating profound, melodramatic stories about his character.

When a member of the French delegation, a beautiful blonde haired witch, proceeded to give a speech about Albus Dumbledore's commitment for justice that appeared grounded in nothing more than an accidental encounter the two happened to have in a hallway, Harry couldn't take it anymore. He began sniggering aloud.

"Harry!" Hermione hissed, as she elbowed him in the side. "It's a _funeral._"

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. "It's just...Dumbledore would have - "

"Hated this?" Ron finished, stifling his own laugh.

"Seriously did that chick ever even meet him?" Ginny said.

"Bet you it isn't even her story," Fred said.

"Yeah the Ministry probably paid her to tell it ."

"And stand there looking pretty while she did."

"Bet you the real guy was sold old wizard with hair growing out of his ears."

"Bet you they just made it up entirely."

"_Arthur_," Molly Weasley hissed.

"_Children_," Arthur Weasley scolded, despite struggling to keep a grin off his face. "Just...keep it down."

From then on, they largely ignored the funeral proceedings themselves. They thought instead of the Albus Dumbledore that they had known.

"You - you remember what Dumbledore said the first night we were at Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" Hermione recited faithfully. "I remember sitting there thinking what the hell was going on."

Ron covered his face with his hands to keep from chortling aloud.

"_That's_ the funeral he ought to have," said George.

"Maybe we should go up there," Fred continued. "Just start spouting off random words."

"Don't you dare," Molly Weasley snapped, although even she couldn't suppress her growing smile.

So as the Ministry continued to tell the story of Albus Dumbledore that they wanted to be known, emphasizing all along his role as a warrior against the Dark Arts and a full cooperator with the Ministry's legislative and law enforcement initiatives, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys whispered their own memories amongst themselves, the version of Albus Dumbledore that they felt they genuinely knew and loved.

Their musings were interrupted by the only three moments of true sincerity in the whole of the proceedings, each one completely unplanned by the Minisry and each one clearly leaving the funeral's planners in a state of increased frustration and annoyance.

The first of these occurred as Dumbledore's body, covered in a royal purple, velvet cloak was carried by Rubeus Hagrid to the marble coffin. It was clear that the Ministry had intended for this moment of absolute silence, yet it was interrupted by the Merpeople, who at that moment chose to rise from the Black Lake itself and sing a mournful, hypnotic tune for the audience.

The second occurred as the coffin itself was lowered into the ground. It was then that a shower of flaming arrows flew from behind Harry and his friends to the very edge of the burial area, forming a circle of fire around the coffin. Most of the guests seemed to interpret them as a planned tribute - after all they fit beautifully into the ceremony - but when Harry turned around, he saw a row of centaurs at the edge of the forest, bow and arrow in hand, disguising themselves within the shadows of the forest yet clearly paying tribute to one of the few men who had genuinely believed in the equality of their races. Tears welled upon in his eyes at the sight. Hermione couldn't take anymore. She sat down cradling her head, Ron's hand on her shoulder.

But the third unorchestrated moment was the most painful of them all. Long after they'd interred Dumbledore's body, after the Ministry's well-positioned lights had erupted next to him and more marble white had risen from the ground in the shape of beautiful tomb, as the tufty-haired wizard dressed in shiny black robes addressed the audience yet again, a beautiful cry rose out from the distance. It was a heartbreaking, mournful song, and it rapidly quieted both the funeral officiator and the waves of whispering in the ground.

"It's a phoenix song," Harry whispered as the realization hit him. "It's Fawkes."

By that point, Hermione, Ginny, Molly and Arthur Weasley were crying uncontrollably. Fred got up and headed toward the forest, presumably to keep anyone from seeing his tears. George followed only moments later.

The beautiful scarlet bird came into sight soon after, still singing its painful lament. It stopped above Albus Dumbledore's resting place and it finished its tune, each inconsolable note piercing deep into the soul of the audience. And then suddenly, Fawkes burst into flames above the place Dumbledore's coffin lay. Shouts of shock and pain rose from the audience at the sight.

And for the first time that week, Harry cried.

* * *

The rapidly approaching start of the new school year became a bittersweet distraction from the recent tragedy. Yes, it was difficult to think of Hogwarts without Albus Dumbledore as Headmaster, and yet it was comforting to go through the familiar, mundane motions of preparing for the new school year: receiving schedules and school supply lists, planning a trip to Diagon Alley, begging tight-lipped Order members for information on new teachers...Harry had also received a letter appointing him as the new captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team; the time he spent mentally planning for the season and imaging their future victories over the likes of Slytherin and Ravenclaw was making him actively eager for the year to start. And when they all finally left the sombre atmosphere of Grimmauld Place to go purchase new textbooks and potion ingredients, Harry practically felt like he was leaving on a vacation.

Ever since Dumbledore's death had been announced, there had been something of a lull in the attacks, disappearances, and robberies that had been ravaging the country, and Diagon Alley, plagued for much of the summer by looters and suspected Death Eater attacks, was surprisingly bustling.

Harry found himself appreciating the hectic atmosphere: the young first years' pushing past each other for new textbooks and wands at Ollivanders; the excitable employees from Quality Quidditch Supplies standing outside the shop door advertising new Beater supplies; Eyelops Owl Emporium overflowing with so much merchandise that they were displaying Screech and Tawny owls right on the streets...It all felt...normal, surprisingly so. The relieved atmosphere of the witches and wizards around them was downright contagious.

But the best part of the trip was indubitably seeing Fred and George's new joke shop firsthand. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had been established at 93 Diagon Alley. It was two stories high and every corner was filled with the twins' characteristic practical joke objects, everything from Extendable Ears to Love Potions to Skiving Snackboxes to Muggle Magic Tricks to numerous other small, multicolored boxes that held inventions Harry had never even seen before. Their business was booming.

"This is incredible," Harry shouted, as he toyed with a bobble-head like Dolores Umbridge doll that was shouting, "Order! Order!" every time you pushed it.

"All thanks to you," Fred said, patting him on the back. "None of this would be possible without your Triwizard winnings."

"Seriously Harry, we'll pay you back," George said, as he ran past to grab. "The second we make enough of a surplus."

"Don't you dare," Harry snapped quietly. "I told you, I'd have thrown it away if you didn't take it. I'll throw anything you give me right out too, I promis - "

"Hey guys," Ron interrupted, walking up the steps, his arms brimming with joke supplies, "How much is all this going to cost?"

"See Ron, all those little boxes and baggies? They have little numbers in the corner. Those are price tags. They're how sellers like us let customers like you kno -"

"I mean, how much is it going to cost _me_?"

"Again, the little numbers in the corn -"

"Oh come on!" Ron exclaimed. "I'm your bloody brother!"

"Oh that's a good point. Fred, maybe we should charge him double?"

"Double? After all the years we've lived with him, I think we ought to charge him _triple._"

"OH COME ON!"

"I'll help pay for it," Hermione interrupted.

"I - I don't ne - need your help," Ron stammered indignantly.

"Oh don't be ridiculous Ron. I want to pay...for some of the non-ridiculous stuff of course. It's not a problem. Some of this stuff is really cool, and I have some extra money from my internship this summer anyway."

"Wait how'd you make any money?" Ron asked. "You worked for a bloody nonprofit!"

"Well I did a good job," Hermione insisted.

"Of course you did Hermione," Fred said in a mocking, sing-song voice. "First place everywhere you go."

"Teachers' pet. Employer's pet. Same difference," George went on.

"For your information," Hermione said indignantly, "I was second place."

"SECOND PLACE!" George shouted. "Merlin, the world IS falling apart!"

"First it's an E in Defense Against the Dark Arts, then second best at work, and next thing you know you'll be working for us!"

"Wait who beat you Hermione?" Harry laughed.

"Oh please tell me it's someone who's awful at school," Fred teased. "A really stupid, stupid person who happens to have fantastic street skills."

Ron cleared his throat, "Come on guys, leave her alon - wait are you holding a love potion?!"

Hermione turned bright red, "Oh shut up guys and just take my money."

The trio cheerfully made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron for a late lunch, arms brimming with school supplies and joke items. For the first time in a long while, it had almost felt like there wasn't even a war going on. In fact, had it not been for an approximately fifteen minute spell that morning when they were purchasing Potions supplies and couldn't find Ron, during which Molly Weasley of course had almost broken out in tears from the panic, their trip would have been indistinguishable from the countless others they'd taken years before, when Voldemort had still been defeated and all the Death Eaters were safely locked up in Azkaban. For a few short hours, they were able to just feel like normal schoolchildren excited for the start of a new year again.

The day, in fact, had been so pleasant that when Harry say Kingsley heading toward their table in the pub as they finished eating and reality came crashing down around him again, he all but groaned aloud. After all, if the Auror was there instead of at the Ministry, it couldn't mean anything good.

"Oh God what happened?" Hermione said when she saw him, clearly thinking along the same lines as Harry.

"N - nothing," Kingsley stammered. "Why do you think something happened?"

Hermione blushed again, "Oh don - don't worry about it. Sorry. Go on."

"I'm not always the bearer of bad news Hermione."

"_Sorry_."

The smile fell off Kinglsey's face, however, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, "Molly, I need to take Harry, Ron, and Hermione for a minute."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Come now Kingsley," Molly replied. "Just for a day, let them be kids."

"_Why_?" Harry insisted.

"I'm afraid I have to insist." Kinglsey avoided Harry's gaze as he spoke, "In Albus Dumbledore's - In Albus Dumbledore's last will and testament, he apparently named Rufus Scrimgeour as the executor of his wishes. The Minister would like to see the three of you as soon as possible."

"Wait. Albus Dumbledore left us something?" Hermione asked.

"It appears so."

Ron laughed, "Wait. You - you actually mean all of us? Not just Harry?"

"The Minister would like to see all three of you," Kinglsey clarified. "It shouldn't take too long. I'll bring them back to Grimmauld as soon we finish."

Harry was speechless. His mind raced. The images of his last interactions with Dumbledore came flooding back. For a few hours there, he'd almost managed to forget...

But as he, Ron, and Hermione followed Kingsley through the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace and through the hallways of the Ministry to Scrimgeour's office, any sense of sadness and nostalgia rapidly became replaced by those of curiosity. What could Albus Dumbledore want to leave us in his will? he thought nervously. Of course Dumbledore must have created a backup plan in case something happened to him, something to still help Harry. Of course he wouldn't have actually left him alone to fight Voldemort all by himself. Dumbledore had to have left behind some answers. After all, Harry had so many questions left...Surely Dumbledore had known that. Surely he'd have been _prepared_...

Harry's mind was so distracted by those sorts of desperate, hopeful thoughts that when the group finally made its way through Level One of the Ministry, which now housed not only Scrimgeour and his staff but no less than three security checkpoints, and when he saw who was exiting the offices with the Minister of Magic himself directly behind him, he practically shouted. "_MALFOY?!"_

A fleeting look of surprised crossed Draco's face as he looked up at Harry, but it was rapidly replaced by his customary smirk. "Ah. Evening Potter."

"What the hell are you doing here?!" Harry asked, still basically shouting. Hermione elbowed him in the stomach, something she'd been doing more and more of lately.

"Family matters. None of your business," Draco replied smoothly, then turned to shake Scrimgeour's hand, "I appreciate your time Minister. I understand how busy you must be during such...difficult days."

"My pleasure," Scrimgeour said with equal coolness. Harry's brow furrowed; the Minister's voice seemed excessively slow and polite, almost suspicious. "Remember to send my regards to your mother."

"Of course." Draco turned to leave before pausing and turning to Scrimgeour again, "If you don't mind my repeating sir, I do trust that you appreciate the need for the strictest confidentiality and discretion regarding everything we discussed. Any disclosure, you understand, could be very unfortunate."

Scrimgeour's lips were thinly pursed, but he met Draco's gaze directly, "You have my word."

"Excellent." Draco shook Scrimgeour's hand again, "All the best sir."

"Suck up," Ron muttered as Draco pushed by them and directed a particularly nasty look toward Ron.

"Everything alright Minister?" Kingsley asked. Draco's appearance had clearly surprised him. "The Malfoys aren't stirring trouble are they?"

"Oh no, no more than usual," Scrimgeour said calmly. "Minor personal business is all." He was staring after Draco closely. "The boy though, he worked in your department this summer?"

"Ironically enough, yes."

"What was your impression of him?"

"Officially sir? He's a smart kid. And a decently talented and hardworking one too, when he feels like it. Apparently he proved himself to be a gifted athlete, and over the course of the summer, he...demonstrated impressive financial and legal sense. I presume he will be successful at whatever it is he sets his mind to."

Scrimgeour smiled, "I see. And unofficially?

Kingsley cleared his throat, "Sleazy, supercilious, self-satisfied, far too much of a smartass for his own good - frankly far too smart for anyone's good; it bothered me - and in possession of a finely hewn sense of personal preservation."

Ron snorted as he tried to suppress a laugh.

"In short, a rather typical Malfoy."

"More or less sir. I should add 'spoiled rotten.'"

Scrimgeour let out a chortling noise that sounded like a low growl, which Harry realized must have been the Minister's version of a laugh. "Tell me Kingsley, have you ever been to Malfoy Manor?"

Kingsley looked taken aback, "I've, um, never had the pleasure."

"3.5million square feet of solid gold, mahogany, and Carrara marble, all set on over 4,000 acres of private property. We can't exactly blame him for being spoiled now can we?"

"I suppose." Kingsley replied with a mix of skepticism and disgust. "May I ask why you're asking sir?"

"Merely curious," Scrimgeour answered quickly. "We had such a nice long conversation. Far wittier than his father, I'll grant him that - although having the misfortune of knowing Lucius far better than I'd like, I must say that isn't too impressive an achievement." Scrimgeour shook his head, "Nevertheless, I apologize for making you wait. Thank you for bringing them Kingsley. If you can wait here..."

The Minister gestured toward Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and they soon found themselves hurrying behind him down a long private hallway, past record rooms and secretaries offices, into a large circular room, built from shining rare woods and adorned with gilded decorations. Portraits of former Ministers of Magic covered the walls, reminiscent of those in the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts.

Scrimgeour slammed the door behind him, pointed the three toward a set of chairs, and began speaking quickly, "Sit. Let's talk business shall we. I assume Shacklebolt has already let you know why you're here: I am executing Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's last will and testament and the three of you are recipients."

Despite working at the Ministry all summer, this was the closest Harry had stood to Rufus Scrimgeour himself. Harry had heard a few rumors about him while working through the Auror's office of course. He had a reputation for fierceness and severity. Bold, aggressive, intelligent, competitive, fearless, a true leader, unafraid of risks: that's how his former colleagues described him. It was said that the man had built his career on being willing to go to any lengths to capture the dark wizards assigned to him. He'd spent a long time working alongside Mad Eye Moody as well, although the new Minister had apparently always managed to exhibit far better people skills than Alastor. That's how one became Minister of Magic, after all, and the other a general symbol of controversy and paranoia. Nevertheless, there was a wonderful, sensationalist Auror story, by this point probably more fiction than fact, about the two of them during the early days of the First Wizarding War ignoring official orders, luring a dozen Death Eaters into a trap, stunning the lot of them simultaneously using a combination of mirrors and, some said, the Imperius Curse, and delivering them to Azkaban before the Head of the Auror Office at the time even had an inkling about the operation.

The man now standing in front of Harry seemed older than the stories had suggested, a little paler and more haggard. But beneath that veneer of age and stress, Harry could see the man the Aurors and Arctors spoke about with such fear and respect. There was a certain lionesque quality to him. He had long, bushy hair, yellowish-brown with eyes that matched, and shiny grey streaks ran through it. There was a sense of charisma about him as well. He walked with a certain grace, and his voice practically roared.

That voice, in all its simultaneous harshness and clarity, quickly forced Harry to pull away from his thoughts and pay attention. Scrimgeour had grabbed a long piece of parchment off his desk and was standing before the seated trio, towering over them.

"As the sole individual entrusted with carrying out the final wishes of Albus Dumbledore I am the only person who has read what's written on this piece of parchment. That being said, I'm sure if its contents were widely known, there would be a large contingent of Ministry officials, not to mention a sizable sector of the media, who would oppose our meeting here today. These people would prefer that instead of handing over any items to you, we instead requisition them under the Decree for Justifiable Confiscation until the Ministry can determine what's so special about them."

"You can't do that," Hermione snapped. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation was designed to prevent wizards from passing along Dark Artifacts to friends and family members. These are Albus Dumbledore's possessions. None of them are going to have Dark Magic."

Scrimgeour smiled thinly, "Miss Granger I presume? A clever girl I've heard."

Hermione fidgeted a little nervously under the Minister's gaze, but she nodded defiantly. "If you're so eager to use that law, I imagine your Malfoy friends are good candidates," she added.

"You might be less adamant about all that when you see what Albus Dumbledore left you Miss Granger. Nonetheless, you happen to be correct. And I for one don't enjoy stretching the letter of the law when it can be avoided." The Minister cleared his throat, "Miss Granger, being as clever as you are perhaps you can help me with the following question. You see, you must agree that it's very curious, what's written on this piece of parchment. Albus Dumbledore taught countless students, generations of them. And yet it is the three of you that he chooses to specifically remember in his will? Mr. Potter I might understand, but you two? Any ideas?"

"No," Hermione said coldly.

"You must all be very special..."

"Thanks," Ron grumbled sarcastically. "We must be."

Scrimgeour didn't reply. "Let's begin then," he said briskly. Removing a pair wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket, he turned to the will. "'To Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of _The Dark of Night_.'"

From off his desk, Scrimgeour removed a heavy black volume and handed it to Hermione. It was one of the thickest books Harry had ever seen, probably more than a thousand pages. Its cover was pitch black, the thinly etched title barely visible, and the pages seemed fragile and yellowed.

"Do you know what that is Miss Granger?" Scrimgeour asked cooly.

Hermione shook her head. She flipped quickly through the pages until they landed on a figure of a skeletal-looking man with the skin peeling off his figure. "Oh god!" she exclaimed.

"Apparently you don't. _The Dark of Night_ is the foremost encyclopedia of the dark arts in the wizarding world. It is comprehensive, graphic, and, let's say, instructional, and its further publication and dissemination has been banned in England for decades. There are probably less than half a dozen copies of that book in private above-ground collections in this country. I didn't even know Albus owned one."

"Merlin..." Ron muttered, as Hermione handled the book gingerly.

"The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation doesn't seem so extraordinary a measure now does it?"

Hermione glared at the Minister again, but her gaze was less defiant.

"So let me ask you Miss Granger: Why do you think that Albus Dumbledore chose to pass down this kind of book to a student?"

"Know thy enemy?" she answered.

"That's one interpretation. You can imagine that there are others."

"I don't think Albus Dumbledore's encouraging us to turn to the Dark Arts if that's what you're implying," Harry snapped.

Scrimgeour let out his characteristic laugh again, "No, I didn't either. It's the only reason I'm handing it over. Let's continue then sha - "

"Minister have you read this book?" Hermione interrupted.

"I have Miss Granger. And no, I didn't start practicing Dark Magic afterwards. I will warn you though: it's not good bedtime reading. I suggest you look through it with all the lights on." He cleared his throat again, "Now let's continue shall we. 'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave the enclosed amulet.' "

Scrimgeour reached back to his desk again and picked up a long chain. Hanging off it was what appeared to be a silver medallion of a lion intricately carved from the background of a silver shield; it wasn't quite the Gryffindor crest, but the symbolism was clear.

"He - he gave me a necklace?" Ron blurted in confusion. "A big, bulky, unwearable necklace?"

"Turn it around Mr. Weasley," Scrimgeour's lips were tightly pursed. "The shield on the back opens."

There was in fact a line carved into the back of the shield. Ron fumbled trying to pry it open, but it fortunately yielded before he went ahead with his secondary plan of hitting it against the arm of his seat until something happened. The back of the heavy amulet was split into two compartments. In each there was a small, glass container, a deep red liquid in the left and a clear one on the right.

"The left is dragon's blood. The second I can't be sure about without opening the container to test it, but knowing Albus Dumbledore, I'm going to guess those are phoenix tears."

"Wow..." Ron breathed.

"Those are powerful protective items Mr. Weasley. I'll ask again: any idea why Albus Dumbledore thought a school student might need them?"

Ron shrugged.

"Well then..." Finally, Scrimgeour turned to Harry. "'And to Harry James Potter, I leave the Golden Snitch that he caught in his first Quidditch match.'"

Harry's mouth almost fell open as the Minister of Magic handed him the small, walnut-sized golden ball. Hundreds of possible items had raced through his mind since Kingsley had announced that Dumbledore'd left him something, and not one had even resembled a Snitch.

"Well?" Hermione insisted, breaking the awkward silence. "How do you open that one?"

"That one doesn't open," Scrimgeour replied smoothly. "It's just...a regular Snitch."

"You're kidding," Harry blurted.

"Not at all Mr. Potter. Perhaps Dumbledore thought it might have sentimental value?"

Harry felt speechless as he looked at the Snitch in his hand. That was it? A useless old Snitch? That's all Dumbledore felt he deserved? _After everything_?

Scrimgeour's chortling laughter interrupted his thoughts once again. "Don't look so worried Mr. Potter. Dumbledore left you two things."

Harry felt a wave of relief come over him, followed by a feeling of annoyance at the Minister for stringing him along.

"Oh my god!" Hermione exclaimed indignantly. "You were just using him to see if he knew how to open it when you couldn't! As if Dumbledore couldn't just leave a - a _memento_."

Scrimgeour ignored her. The amused look had left his face and he was looking piercingly at Harry. He strode behind his desk and from underneath it pulled out a long leather case. "I am not sure if Albus Dumbledore even had the authority to give away what is in this case to anyone. If someone were to ask my legal opinion, my instinct would be to let them know that the item in question is owned by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that it never belonged to Albus Dumbledore, and that he has no right to give it away."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged bewildered looks.

"Be that as it may," Scrimgeour continued, "Since I cannot resolve the question of ownership on my own and since I would rather protect the privacy of this document than direct the full force of the Ministry's resources toward investigating any part of it, I've decided to let you have it."

"Th - thanks. I guess," Harry replied in confusion.

"'Also to Harry James Potter, I leave the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.'" As he spoke, the Minister opened the case. Lying inside on a bed of dark purple velvet was indeed the sword of Gryffindor, newly shined, the silver gleaming, the rubies perfectly reflecting the light, each letter of Gryffindor's name clearly, beautifully etched.

"That sword does belong to Harry," Hermione quickly interjected. "It presented itself to him in the Chamber of Secrets because he was a worthy Gryffindor. There shouldn't be any question of ownership."

The Minister ignored her again. "Take it Mr. Potter. It's yours."

"Thank you," Harry repeated, as he walked over and picked up the sword. It looked and felt

A knot formed in his throat as he remembered how he came upon the sword in the first place, moments away from death deep in the Chamber of Secrets. Dumbledore and Fawkes had come to his aid when he'd needed them most. Always there for him. That had been Dumbledore.

"I would be tempted to ask you what you might ever need a sword for, but I expect you'll give me the same answer as your friends here."

Harry put the sword back and took the case, all the while looking back toward the Minister in silence.

"And nonetheless I can imagine myself why this item might be useful: Sword of Gryffindor, Heir of Slytherin..."

Harry shrugged. Scrimgeour was clearly baiting him, and he had no interest in playing.

"Very well then," the Minister said brusquely as he sat back down at his desk. "That would be all. I expect you three can find your way out. Try not to loiter in the hallway."

"Unbelievable," Hermione muttered with disapproval, as they walked out.

"Mr. Potter," Scrimgeour said, stopping Harry in his doorway. "One last word."

"Yes sir?"

"I've given the three of you these items on good faith. I happen to believe that we are on the same side. We want the same thing. We're fighting the same enemy. So if there is anything, _anything_ that you believe the Ministry might want to know, if there is any way that you can help us, now would be the time to share."

Harry thought about the Prophecy, about that night in the graveyard, about Dumbledore's final words to him:_ There is much more which I need to show and teach you Harry. We'll start, weekly, when I return._

"I'm sorry Minister," Harry said cooly. "Unfortunately, I can't return your favor."

* * *

That night, Draco lay on the floor of his bedroom playing with his silver dagger, sharp and shining, the hilt embellished with high quality diamonds and bluish-green grandidierite. Wandlessly and wordlessly, he was throwing it above his head, following it as it spun through the air, and halting it as it reached him again. He concentrated on forcing it to spin precisely along its vertical axis and on stopping it right when the very tip got close to his face. Years ago, the exercise had forced him to focus, calmed him even. Now it had become too easy. He only did it out of habit.

His minded wandered as he lay there waiting for enough time to pass by. He resented having to do what he was about to. In fact, he scarcely could believe he was in this position to begin with. After _everything_, he was somehow _still_ in this position. "Fucking bastard," he mumbled, as he let the tip of the knife touch his nose. "Fucking, fucking, controlling bastard."

He'd been further exposed, that much was clear. Sooner or later Scrimgeour was bound to pry around asking questions. Of course, it was too early to determine whether or not the Minister would pose a real threat. It was unlikely that he'd stumble on the right questions to ask, much less manage to direct them toward the right people. Still, it bothered Draco. Subjecting himself to this kind of vulnerability wasn't how he liked to handle any business, much less his own. A hatred for sloppiness and inattention had been engrained in him. He didn't tolerate clues being left around for the next pair of curious, prying eyes; he didn't leave traces behind. Giving the Minister of Magic himself even the most minute glimpse into the truth went against every natural instinct he had. If Scrimgeour were to become a problem, he could be an exceptionally complicated one to deal with.

Draco waved his hand to turn the knife sideways and looked at the reflection of his eyes. They were still their normal shade of cold, hard grey. "At least I don't have that to worry about tonight. _Thank you_," he mumbled sarcastically.

He didn't like what had to be done on principle either. Of course it was unavoidable, but it meant more exposure, more uncertainty, more risk...not to mention that it would force him to entrust personal business to individuals he rather didn't fancy trusting. It was even worse having to leave from Malfoy Manor to do it. He'd learned a long time ago that sneaking away in the middle of the night was a lot easier when there was no one around to see him do it.

What a mess. This was a bloody disaster waiting to happen. All because somehow, some way, despite all his efforts, this was _actually_ happening to him, like the conclusion of a twisted nightmare that had been tormenting him for years. Like some sick, manipulative practical joke.

Angrily, Draco flicked his hand and the knife hurdled away from him. It hit the marble tower of the fountain in the center of his bedroom and clattered loudly into the water below. Of course it didn't make Draco feel the least bit better. Instead, he just felt the fury toward every person or force that was responsible for driving him to this accursed place overwhelm, and he screamed aloud toward the ceiling in painful frustration.

* * *

A few hours later, however, when Draco walked downstairs adjusting the special diamond cufflinks on his sleeves, it was business as usual. He was perfectly composed.

He planned to take a more public fireplace out that night, one that still received plenty of Floo Network use, where his own trip would be unidentifiable from amongst all the others if ever anyone thought to investigate. Hide in plain sight, as it were. Yet as he hurried down the hallways of his enormous home, the faces of his ancestor's portraits looking down on him, all of them too reverent of his position as the sole family heir to so much as whisper as he passed, he was stopped in his tracks by a faint light emanating from ballroom. Disgust welled up in him as he recognized who must've been standing there by the foul, rotting stench that drifted toward him even from afar. He probably should have left it well enough alone, at least on that night, but he'd never been very good at that particular kind of self-discipline.

Instead, Draco approached the doorway until he could hear the conversation inside.

"I don't care what the Lestrange woman says. The two of you work for me," growled the indistinguishable snarling voice of Fenrir Greyback. "With Dumbledore gone, there's never been a better time to do this."

"There'll be Aurors everywhere Fenrir."

"Screw the Aurors. The pack is restless. Every day we expand and every day they have to be held back against their instincts. Why - just because of what the crazy, dark-haired woman says? I'm ready for a _bite_. We're all ready for a bite. So no more waiting. From now on, it's open season."

"I - I understand."

"Listen here then. We surround Hogwarts. We infiltrate that village; there're plenty in the pack that aren't on Ministry watchlists. You'll know the ones Selenius. And then there's you Scabior."

"M - me? But the Snatchers...they need someone to be in char - "

"It's about time you did something more useful than leading around a bunch of pillaging thieves and then coming back here to think about what Malfoy artifact you'd most like to steal."

"Hey this time I've actually grabbed one. Should make me a pretty few galle -"

"I've got a cushy job for you all settled in that bar. You can scout out the place, look for good _options_. There'll be plenty of children around. You know what we like."

"It's still very close to Potter boss."

"And if we manage to gets our hands on the Potter kid or any of his friends than why not? Why shouldn't we get some of the glory? Screw orders, the Lestrange bitch would do it herself if she got the chance. No reason for us not to."

"Evening gentlemen," Draco interrupted cooly, as he strolled into the room. Greyback and Scabior looked startled, while Selenius, who Draco recognized from Ministry files as another member of Greyback's pack, growled threateningly. "What a surprise to see you here so late at night."

"Draco Malfoy," Greyback explained to the rest. "Lucius Malfoy's only son. Back home from playing dress-up at the Ministry this summer I understand."

"Isn't it past your bedtime kid?" Selenius grumbled.

"I happen to have a special date tonight. What about you lot? This seems like a bit of an unusual meeting. After all, two people whispering secrets in the dark of night is suspicious, but three is a practically a conspiracy."

"I'm going to assume you know who I am," snarled Greyback. "It'll be smart for you to run along and mind your own busi -"

"Hogsmeade isn't your playground Greyback, and Harry Potter isn't your prize to capture," Draco interrupted coldly. "You remember the orders: you're not to lay a hand on him. It isn't your place. In fact, I don't think that dealing with anyone at Hogwarts is within the scope of your job. There are plenty of children there that you would be fools to touch - good pureblood children; children of useful and influential political figures; those sorts of kids - and you wouldn't know who any of them are. Find your next dinner somewhere else."

Once again, Greyback and his minions looked taken aback, in part because of how Draco had spoken to them and in part because he had apparently heard and concluded so much in the first place.

Draco smiled again, "For future reference, the ballroom might seem conveniently dark and perpetually empty, but it tends to echo beautifully. Phenomenal acoustics. It's quite the architectural achievement if that sort of thing interests you. Back in the 1800s - "

"I wonder how the Dark Lord would feel," Greyback interrupted coldly, "if he knew you were going around listening at doors to business that wasn't your own."

"Surely not as angry as he would feel to know his direct orders were about to be disobeyed, especially by the likes of you."

Selenius moved forward snarling, but Greyback placed a hand on his chest to hold him back. He looked at Draco with a deathly glare on his face. "Who do you think you are to order us around? Learn your place. You're not a Death Eater yet you brat."

"Oh but I will be. Soon enough, I assure you; I'm making sure of that. And after all, I'm practically Death Eater royalty." Draco chuckled falsely, "But _you_? You are not a Death Eater, and you're never going to be one. The likes of you don't become Death Eaters."

Draco laughed again as Greyback and Selenius' faces twisted even more deeply in anger, "Face it Fenrir. You're just a foot soldier taking orders from your betters."

"Watch your mouth kid," Greyback growled as he took a menacing step toward him.

Draco continued calmly, "Your brand of cruelty has a special place here, that much is true. There's a certain art about it. It's almost impressive, in a deeply unsettling, blood-lust driven, deranged killing machine, pedophillic sort of way. It's _valuable_. But in the end, when we say growl, you growl. When we say jump, you jump. When we say roll over, well you know how it goes...like a good little doggy."

Greyback grabbed Draco by the front of his shirt and instead of speaking simply roared threateningly in Draco's face. Scabior winced beside them.

Draco blinked away the horrendous smell of Greyback's breath but kept the smirk plastered on his face, "Tut tut. Touched a nerve I see."

The werewolf pushed him away roughly, "Get out of here kid, before I do something your mother and that pretty little face of yours is going to regret."

Draco ignored him and turned toward Scabior. The tall skinny man with dirty skin and soiled, tangled hair was fidgeting nervously and trying to hide behind Selenius' burly frame. He was holding a large black duffel bag in his hand.

"What's in the bag Scabior?" Draco snapped coldly.

"N - nothing," Scabior stammer, trying to faux-hide the bag behind him. "Just clothes. And stuff."

"A little late to be looking after your physical fitness isn't it? What's in the bag?" Draco repeated.

"Cl - clothes and stuff..."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Alright, you lot are making me late, so this is what's going to happen. You can hand that over now Scabior or we can call Bellatrix and Rabastan down here and do it the hard way. Your choice."

Draco had said the magic words. Scabior looked at him with pure disgust as he begrudgingly handed the bag over. Draco roughly unzipped it, threw some dirty shirts from inside back toward Scabior, and finally took out a heavy solid gold vase with embedded lapis lazuli and small black diamonds, "From the east wing hallway I assume?"

"Don't know how that ended up in there," Scabior muttered. Selenius snorted with laughter beside him.

"Oh yes very amusing," Draco said cooly. "I suspect I'm going to laugh even harder next time."

"Next time?"

"Yes Scabior, because you see, the next time you lay a hand on anything belonging to my family, I'll make sure you end up without hands."

"You don't threaten my men," Greyback interrupted angrily.

"It's my house. I'll threaten anyone I want." Draco threw the bag back to Scabior, "Don't steal from me again."

Greyback walked right up to Draco again, so close that their chests were touching and that the werewolf's every word hit Draco right in the face, "Listen here you spoiled, smart-ass bastard. You say whatever you want now, because your aunt and your uncle and your father are around to protect you. But that won't last forever. Your _stock_ is falling Malfoy. Your father's a disgrace, stuck in Azkaban, and Merlin help him when he gets out. Your uncle's sitting right next to him, and his brother is a useless drunk. Your godfather, well I'm not even sure he's really on our side. Even your precious Aunt Bellatrix is falling out of favor. His most trusted? Please, I heard not even she knows where the Dark Lord is right now. Face it: your name's on the decline, and sooner than you think there won't be anyone around to protect you. When that happens we'll be waiting."

"Well, however far I fall, at least I'll always end up higher than a filthy half-breed like you."

Greyback growled in Draco's face again. The werewolf was twitching in anger, every muscle and sinew in him fighting to resist the overwhelming urge to attack the boy front of him. However tempting it might be, he'd be a dead man if he touched that boy now; the Dark Lord would probably sanction it himself and that dark-haired, bossy bitch would enjoy every moment of torturing him to his grave.

Draco knew all this, and he continued to smirk. "Bite me," he slurred.

"Don't. Tempt. Me."

Draco stared back at him defiantly, before finally snarling, "Get out."

* * *

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there_.

Half an hour later, having ensured that Greyback and his friends had left empty-handedly and having taken far too long to speak with three of the main Manor house elves about keeping a particular eye out for members of the werewolf pack, Draco was standing in the cold, dark entrance hall of Gringotts and reading over its inscribed warning. It was well past midnight now, the huge doors were locked, and the bank's primary operations had been closed for hours. The footsteps echoed loudly through the room as a goblin finally walked up to meet him.

"It's very late Master Malfoy," the goblin growled.

"This is urgent."

"Gringotts' business is always urgent, sir."

"This is different," Draco said cooly. "This one can't be done by the light of day."

The goblin nodded slowly, "Very well." He walked up to the silver doors and placed his hands on either side of the door knockers. There was the rough noise of moving stone and the floor beneath the doors fell downward and shifted open to reveal a staircase leading to the level below. Draco followed the goblin down the stairs into a large chamber, largely mirroring the vast marble hall above, but exceptionally dark, cold, and musty, made of dirt and rough unvarnished stone, covered with roots and fungi and the occasional elaborate metal embellishment. Goblins bustled through the room, hectically and angrily preparing the perfectly orchestrated activities that were managed in the room above during the day. These were goblins in their more native habitat, among themselves alone, and they stared darkly and suspiciously as Draco was led to a table at the far end of the room.

"Evening," Draco said curtly as he sat down.

An withered elder goblin looked up at him, so old he rarely left the cavernous underbelly of the bank, the kind of goblin most wizards would never even set their eyes on. He smiled thinly, "Master Malfoy...what a surprise. We are accustomed to seeing your father on such encounters."

Draco grunted.

"Not to mention how rare thes - "

"I have no intention of wasting your time," Draco interrupted, "nor am I in the habit of wasting my own."

A glint shone in the goblin's eye and he smiled again, "My apologies Master Malfoy. How might I assist you tonight?"

Draco took out an envelope from his breast pocket and held it in his hands. "I have recently come into possession of an...unexpected inheritance, one of considerable monetary and property value. I need you to make it disappear."

"Of course. Easily done...at any time of day."

Draco pursed his lips tightly and continued patiently, "No, I'm not sure you understand. I recognize that you consider yourself accustomed to tending to secretive transactions. I know that some of the things you're capable of doing would surpass most wizards' wildest imaginations." Draco's voice dropped to a whisper, "But this secret is remarkable in ways that others aren't. It's the kind of thing that very dangerous people would be willing to kill to confirm, and I also know that you hear that a lot, but this is different. In the hands of the wrong people, this secret...this secret would shatter this world and this war to their foundations. So I have to know beyond any doubt that you are _personally_ prepared to honor every single one of the vows that your people made to mine generation ago. That even of pain of torture or death, you will do your duty and not reveal what you read on this piece of paper to anyone. And if you cannot, then you need to step away from this table and find me a high-level goblin who can, because I swear that your kind has not been entrusted with the likes of what I am now holding in this envelope since the days you were solicited to forge weapons for the armies of Avalon."

The goblin had stopped smiling; he looked at Draco coldly, but the glint of uncontrollable curiosity and greed had returned to his eye. He nodded solemnly and motioned for Draco to give him the envelope. Begrudgingly, the wizard slid it across the table and leaned back, as Ragnok opened it and began to read. With every line, the light in the goblin's dark, slanted eyes blazed even more brightly and by the time he had finished, his face had assumed the closest thing to surprise and excitement that a goblin's features could express. He looked up and stared at Draco in silence before whispering, "I understand completely Master Malfoy."

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting in the bedroom at the Order, looking over the items Dumbledore had left them with confusion and amazement. Whatever positive feelings they'd developed that morning had washed away, the painful memory and uncertainty of Dumbledore's death afresh in their minds.

Kingsley had controlled himself and refused to ask about their meeting with the Minister, but not everyone in Grimmauld Place behaved with his tact. Mrs. Weasley had practically grabbed the amulet out of Ron's hand, looked at it in surprise and admiration, hugged Ron proudly, and then burst out into tears again. Mundungus Fletcher, who had been on his way out of the building when they'd returned, stuck around and asked a flood of questions, most of them clearly designed to help him predict the monetary worth of Dumbledore's old possessions. He cast especially glossy eyes toward the Gryffindor's sword. Even Lupin, who'd been making a point of giving Harry space, seemed entranced by the beautiful blade and asked Harry to hold it.

"Merlin," he breathed, "I thought this was a legend."

By the time they managed to make their way alone upstairs, the three felt tired and overwhelmed.

"And we were having such a good day..." Ron mumbled.

Hermione had been flipping through the pages of her book with a look of mixed fear and apprehension. She slammed it shut and snapped, "I can't believe Scrimgeour. All those sly questions? He was interrogating us as if we had somehow manipulated to steal Dumbledore's things, as if we had been _expecting_ it to happen. And those thinly veiled threats?!"

"Dad says he was something of a hero among the Aurors though," Ron said, in between bites of a cinnamon roll he'd stolen from his mother downstairs.

"I don't think 'hero' is the right word," Harry corrected. "If you talk to the Aurors and the Arctors about him, they don't particularly admire him or even really like him all that much. It's more like they're impressed by him, maybe a little intimidated?"

"Same difference," Ron mumbled under his breath. "Not all of us can chat to Aurors about the Minister of Magic..."

"I don't care what his reputation is," Hermione snapped. "I didn't get the sense that we could trust him. And you know what, it's not like he's done anything even remotely useful at the Ministry from what I can tell. Besides acknowledging that You Kno - that _Voldemort_ - yes Ron, I'm saying the name; we all should - that _Voldemort _is back, which anyone idiot should have been able to do. Good thing you didn't tell him anything Harry."

"It's not Scrimgeour himself I mistrust," Harry said.

Hermione grunted, "It should be. I mean, he was downright...I don't know, _shady._ Off-color."

"Albus Dumbledore just died and he's reading over his Last Will and Testament," Harry countered. "The man's _allowed_ to look off-color."

"We're all devastated. He didn't need to bait us as if we were guilty of a crime and he was our judge."

"Again, it's not Scrimgeour I'm wary of," Harry insisted. "It's the entire Ministry. They're not prepared for this at all. I was there for a few weeks and it was obvious. They're just trying to keep people from panicking and realizing how woefully incompetent they all are. There's no _offensive_. They have no plan; they're just reacting to whatever happens."

"I'm sure there are plenty of Death Eaters integrated among them too," Hermione said.

"Speaking of Death Eaters," Ron said. 'What the hell do you think Malfoy was doing? Trying to bribe the Minister to get his father out of prison? I bet dear Lucius isn't doing all that well in Azkaban."

"They seemed a little too friendly for that though," Hermione pointed out. "Another reason to distrust Scrimgeour: 'We can't exactly blame him for being spoiled'? Of course we can! Like we can blame him for being racist and self-absorbed too."

"It's not that Ron," Harry said. "Can't be."

"How do you know? I could totally see it," Ron said.

"If Malfoy thought bribing Scrimgeour would work, if he thought blackmailing Scrimgeour would work, trust me he would have already done it."

Ron and Hermione exchanged nervous glances.

"Harry..." Hermione began slowly. "You know last week when you went drinking with Malfoy?"

"And you guys did a great job of not bringing it up?" Harry snapped. "Yeah I remember."

Hermione seemed a little taken aback but continued, "We've just been wondering...why, I guess?"

"Wondering behind my back you mean?" Harry snapped again.

"No I understand why you wanted to get away and even drink, but Malfoy's..._mean_. And he doesn't like you. And he didn't like Dumbledore."

"What she means is, what the fuck?" Ron interrupted. He was getting really tired of Harry's emotional volatility, of feeling like he had to walk on eggshells around his feelings.

Harry felt the unpredictable anger he'd been feeling rising up to throat again and tried to fight it. "S - sorry for snapping," he said. "I - I don't even really know why I went with Malfoy. It was just an impulse. I asked before I even realized I was asking."

"I see..." Hermione said.

Harry sighed, "I think, in part, it's because...everyone was about to look at me as if I'm either this absurd curiosity or this fragile thing that needs to be protected. I just wanted to think about Dumbledore and to - to _process_ it without anyone staring to see how I reacted or asking me if I felt alright or...talking about how I'm the Chosen One. The fact that Malfoy doesn't give a shit about me was sort of the point."

"I see..."

"And then - I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"I told you Hermione; there's something _off_ about him."

"You've said that, but we don't know what you mean by _off_."

"Is he a psycho?" Ron laughed. "Do you think he's just going to snap this year or something? He can't threaten anyone to tell his father about things anymore. It might just drive him crazy."

Harry ignored him, "_I _don't know what I mean by _off_. It's just...it's like he _knows_ things Hermione. Knows things I don't know. Knows thing he has no reason to know. I can't really explain it."

"He does live in Death Headquarters. I'm sure he hears things."

"Technically I don't think he lived in Malfoy Manor over the summer, but that - that's beside the point. I don't think it's that Hermione. I mean, maybe _part_ of it is that but it's more than that."

"You're really making a lot of sense here Harry," Ron said glibly.

"I don't know! It's like - it's like the person I've interacted with over the summer and the person we've been going to school with for five years are two completely different people. And I can't tell which one is the _real_ Malfoy."

"What did he say?" Hermione asked. "When you two were at the pub or wherever?"

"Nothing," Harry lied quickly. "We just sat there. And don't look at me that way; it's true."

"I for one think you've been spending too much time around him," Ron said with a blasé voice, the inner mysteries of Draco Malfoy not interesting him in the least. "Forget about it. You don't have to work together anymore. Things'll go right back to normal when we get to Hogwarts."

"Maybe..."

"I'm telling you. One day in and he'll moan about all the Gryffindors and call Hermione a you-know-what and praise You-Know-Who and you'll hate the brat as much as you always have."

Harry grunted.

"Anyway," Ron continued. "Away from the serious, doom-and-gloom conversations for a bit. I have an important question for Hermione: What was all that about second place?"

Hermione blushed. "It's not a big deal," she snapped.

"Of course it is. When's the last time you've been second at..._anything_?"

Harry laughed, "He's right Hermione. Spill."

"Fine," Hermione snapped, still blushing. "It's not a big deal though. We just had a little competition..."

"Which you lost apparently."

"To Pansy Parkinson..." Hermione admitted.

"Ew," Ron said.

"Merlin Hermione, Fred and George were right; you're losing your touch." Harry smiled.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I can explain you know."

"Well you can try."

"She basically cheated. We got points for different performance measures over the course of the summer: how clients felt about us, what projects we proposed, and - probably most importantly even though claimed it wasn't - how much money we were able to raise for various causes."

"Oh don't tell me Parkinson used her own money."

"Well, no. That was against the rules. But she got all her rich friends to do it for her! Daphne Greengrass donated like several hundred galleons to this like fine arts thing, dancing things for the underprivileged, like she actually gives a shit about people less fortunate than her. And Harry, I can't help you determine what's 'off' about Draco, but I can let you know he donated _thousands_ to this mental health, behavioral facility for troubled children called Artemisia's."

"NO! NO more talking about Malfoy," Ron exclaimed.

"You're the one who asked me to explain!"

"Alright, fine. But let's return to the important part here: your absolute failure. And the excuse that just is not good enough."

"He's right," Harry teased. "The Hermione I know should've outsmarted her."

"It wasn't an even playing field!"

"BUT. But - but - but - it was _Pansy Parkinson_."

"Oh shut up Ron," Hermione said. She couldn't repress a giggle herself however.

As their laughter faded away, Harry lay face up on his bed and felt the Golden Snitch in his pocket. He'd almost forgotten about it until then. Carelessly, he started throwing it up and down. Every once in a while its little wings opened and it floated in the air above Harry for him to lazily catch.

"I wonder why he left you that," Hermione finally said.

"No idea."

Ron shrugged, "Maybe Dumbledore was feeling sentimental. He obviously liked you. I mean, it would be a little weird if he took that Snitch after your first match and just _kept_ it, but he was a weird guy."

"There's no way that's just a nostalgic little gift," Hermione insisted. "I guess we could try seeing if it's enchanted in some special way," Harry said. "But really it just looks and behaves like a normal Snitch."

"Harry, everything else Dumbledore left us is strategic. _Everything_. The sword, this book, dragon's blood, phoenix tears...all those stuff might be extremely useful during the war. I'm sure that same idea applies to that Snitch. There's something special about it Harry. There has to be."

* * *

A few days later, Astoria Greengrass stood in front of the mirror in her closet dressed in nothing but her bra and underwear. She was inspecting herself critically. The intense dance training she'd been engaging in over the course of the summer showed on her body. The abs were there. Her tall, thin legs looked toned, and there was a nice, wide gap between the tops of her thighs when she touched her knees together.

Still, she knew she had slacked off during these last few performances. She'd just been feeling so tired. That showed on her body too, she was certain of it. Her stomach muscles definitely seemed less defined than they had been a few weeks ago. She grabbed her mid-thigh with her hands. Her fingers could curl around the limb with ease, but still...it seemed thicker than last week...at least she thought it did. Maybe it was just a little less toned or a little less exercised or -

A knock on the closet door startled her from the customary obsessive analysis of her bodily features.

"You in there?" asked the voice of her sister Daphne.

Astoria quickly pulled on a white silk bathrobe and hurried away from the full length mirror; she sat at her vanity table and began applying makeup. "Come in," she said.

"Everything alright?"

"Just getting ready."

Daphne sighed knowingly but didn't press further. She turned to the dress that her sister had hung out for the evening: a thin, light green, beaded and crystal halter dress with a deep V-neck. "Hot."

"I know right? It moves really well too. Great for dancing."

"It matches your eyes."

"Didn't even think about that," Astoria giggled sarcastically. Of course she had noticed. Astoria was compulsively aware of those sorts of details.

"Isn't it a little too party-ish for dinner though?"

"Oh I'm not coming to dinner."

Daphne's mouth fell open, "Eh - what?"

"I'm going out with the ballet company. Drinks, dancing...I'm not going to see most of them for a year after all. Because unlike me they don't have to waste their time with Potions and Herbology and whatever bullshit. They get to go to a special arts academ - "

"It's the back-to-school dinner. The one mom's been planning for weeks..."

"It's _your_ back-to-school dinner," Astoria corrected. "No one from my year's ever invited."

"Draco's coming."

"So mom said. Several times. As if he doesn't always come."

Daphne sat down next to her at the vanity table. "You do understand what I said before, right? Draco likes you - No, go with that more bronze eyeshadow; it'll look more striking. Anyway, Draco likes you, as in he _likes you_ likes you. As in - "

"As in he's attracted to me and wants to hook up with me. Yeah, yeah I get it. I might be two years below in you in school Daphne, but I'm only a year younger in age. I do understand these things."

"Oh please don't tell me you don't like him and that's why you're not coming."

"Of course -"

"Because he's gorgeous and rich and about as pureblood as you can get and basically _everything_ we've ever wanted. I mean, if you can _actually_ reel him in, Astoria, all of our problems woul -"

"Daphne," Astoria interrupted. "He's _Draco_. Of course I _like_ him."

"Alright, then why aren't you coming to dinner?"

Astoria rolled her eyes and looked at her sister, "What do you want me to do Daphne? Sit at the table all dolled up making googly eyes in Draco's direction, giggling at all his jokes, and 'accidentally' brushing my hand over him at every opportunity."

"Well...that might be coming on a little strong, but...kinda..."

"And how's that been working out for you and Blaise?"

"Hey, he has a special relationship with me, that much is obvious."

"With you and with how many other girls?"

"That's not fair," Daphne snapped.

Astoria sighed, "You're right. Sorry."

She turned back to the vanity table and grabbed some hair pins and a brush. "Mind holding up that mirror? I want to do this half-updo thing but I can never get it right if I don't see the back of my head."

"Just call the house elf."

"She's doing all the laundry before school. I think the old thing's been sick too because she's behind on everything."

As Daphne stood up and helped her with her hair, Astoria continued, "Listen, Draco is used to either having everything he wants or getting it immediately. Girls throw themselves at him. He has pick of whoever he wants, whenever he wants."

"Which means that his attention is quickly going to be directed elsewhere! Probably toward the next pretty girl in a short skirt that walks by him in the hall at Hogwarts. You need to take advantage of this moment while it's here."

"I don't want _this moment_ Daphne."

"What do you mean?"

"I want _more_ than this moment. I want the long-term deal." Astoria turned around to face her sister, "Why do you think Draco hasn't had a single girlfriend since that ill-fated long-term fling with Pansy? Getting his attention? You're right, that's easy. The hard part's keeping it."

"And you think you can do that?"

"I think I have a better chance at doing it if I'm not fluttering my eyelids at him like all the other floozies. It's just too _easy_ for him . He like a girl, he hooks up with a girl, he moves on to a different girl. There's no long-term interest in it. I think it's about time Draco chase someone himself for a change, instead of the other way around. And anyway, I'm worth it aren't I?"

Daphne looked at her sister in the mirror. She certainly was. With her sharply cut facial features, jet black hair, pale skin, and deep green eyes, Astoria was classically beautiful. It was a different sort of beauty than her own. Daphne's features were softer, her figure a little rounder, her sex appeal more obvious. Astoria had a more intense, arresting beauty; there was a cold, fierce but almost regal air about her. It might actually be more Draco's type.

"Alright, alright. Although I warn you, the whole 'playing hard to get' thing doesn't always work as well as you think it might."

"Nothing else seems to work with him. Might as well give this a try," Astoria shrugged. "But don't worry, I'll make an appearance tonight before I head out: say hi to everyone, maybe do a little twirl in the dress. You know, I think it just might be a little transparent under bright lights." She winked.

* * *

A few hours later, Draco strolled cheerly and tipsily into the small, dark smoking room that held the only fireplace in Malfoy Manor still connected to the Floo Network.

"You alright there Rabastan?" he asked mockingly as his uncle's brother tottered toward him down the hallway with a large bottle of rum in his hand.

"Nevahhh BET-TAH," the man drunkenly drawled toward him.

"Take care of yourself. Auntie Bel's gonna hide your liquor somewhere new."

"Ah fuck ya," Rabastan spat.

"Lovely," Draco muttered, shaking his head as he made his way through the labyrinthine mansion to his suite in the west wing. How that man managed to evade being captured and sent back to Azkaban was beyond him. He yawned loudly as he entered and began to pull off his shirt. It would all be so much easier if everything stayed that way: evening dinner and drinks with the old family friends, Lysandra Greengrass trying to pimp out her daughters to wizarding England's most eligible bachelors, the occasional harmless relative drunk off his ass...

He halted momentarily as he entered the main sitting room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It was still dark, but he felt certain somebody else was in the suite with him. Swallowing heavily, he took a few more steps forward, then quickly swung out behind him.

His fist collided heavily with someone's jaw. A man grunted softly and tried to punch out himself, but Draco caught his hand by the wrist and twisted the arm around sharply, before grabbing his attacker's shirt and pushing him to the ground.

The man's head crashed violently against the floor and he let out a loud shout. "Damn Draco, you planning on snapping my neck?"

Draco froze, "The fuck...Zabini?!"

"Missed you too mate," Blaise moaned.

Draco sat back on his ankles, fumbled for his wand in his pocket, and shot a flame toward the fireplace. Sure enough, Blaise was sprawled out on the floor, wincing as he rubbed his jaw.

"Can you get off me now?" he snapped.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" Draco asked as he stood, helped his friend up, and gave him a quick slap on the back.

"Same as always? My house is still connected to yours on the Floo Network you know. I'm a little surprised, actually. Expected you'd cut off all contact," Blaise groaned again, "Ugh, God Draco, my neck."

"Serves you right for trying to scare the shit out of me," Draco retorted. "And we've never been fully connected. Just you, the Nott's, the Greengrass's, the Parkinson's, the Black's - back in the day - a couple of others." Draco walked over to a tall, oriental, black lacquer cabinet and unlocked it. "Sit," Draco motioned, the annoyance in his voice subsiding a little. "What do you want? Wine? Brandy? Spiced rum?"

"Scotch," Blaise said, as he dropped slowly into an armchair next to the fireplace, still rubbing his neck.

"Scotch it is." Draco grabbed a bottle and two crystal glasses. "So, what are you doing here?"

"Well, I was coming back eventually you know," Blaise sniggered.

"I meant I thought you and your psychic brat friends weren't leaving Italy until tomorrow, at least."

Blaise glared at him. "Decided to take an earlier train."

Draco laughed as he joined his friend by the fireplace, handed him a glass, and slammed the bottle on a table between them. "Bet your mother loved that: your traveling around Europe all by your lonesome."

"She'll get over it," Blaise snorted, "And even if I did die, I think she's offed enough husbands to be just fine without my inheritance." He leaned back and took a long, deep sip of scotch, "Ahhhh...Now this, this I've missed."

"I bet. Don't imagine that your uncle approves of the great Seers of the future clouding their Inner Eye with alcohol."

"Nothing but water, bread, porridge, and the occasional cold chicken all summer. I'm surprised I didn't fucking starve you know."

"You should have asked my mother where I was. I'm sure Mrs. Greengrass would have been ecstatic to feed you."

Blaise rolled his eyes, "Wasn't really in the mood. It's been a long summer. Plus I didn't think walking around this place alone hoping to find your mother without running into anyone else was the world's best idea."

"Wise."

"Speaking of, I think your uncle has a drinking problem."

"Uncle's brother," Draco corrected. "And in his defense, it runs in the family."

"I've noticed." Blaise sniggered as Draco raised his glass in a mock toast and began telling a family story about an adolescent Rabastan Lestrange drunkenly running through the gardens of the family's vacation home in Santorini without any clothes on, screaming about Cornish pixies. His mind, however, began to wander almost immediately. He tried to focus and keep his eyes fixed on the glass in front of him, but he couldn't dismiss his restlessness. Draco's words seemed to be coming from far away, and Blaise began fidgeting in his seat. Almost involuntarily, he turned to look behind him, through Draco's other sitting room to the door on the other side of the foyer. The third time he did it, he twisted back around quickly, downed the rest of his drink, and reached out for the bottle to refill.

"You alright there Zabini?" Draco asked cooly. He must have stopped talking a while ago. He was leaning back, one hand tapping his fingers on the arm of the seat, the other languidly holding his glass in the air, his eyes fixed on Blaise with a mixture of concern and suspicion.

Blaise avoided his glance for a moment. Then he clenched his jaw tightly and nodded toward the door.

Draco groaned, "You came back early because you needed to have one of those conversations didn't you?"

"Draco..."

Draco groaned again and took out his wand. Blaise flinched as the heavy doors in the suite all slammed shut. "Imperturbatus," Draco muttered. He paused for the charm to set in place, then leaned forward and liberally filled his glass again. "Alright," he began brusquely, "what's on your mind?"

Blaise swallowed heavily. "Draco, I've - I've spent the past couple of weeks completely disconnected from the rest of the world. No letters, no papers, no radio - not even a postcard. I didn't leave the Academy grounds all summer."

"Great men suffer for their art," Draco said snidely.

Blaise ignored him, "I finally get back to the normal world of normal humans, and the first thing I see when I pick up a newspaper is an article on Albus Dumbledore's legacy coupled with photographs from his funeral."

"Not this again," Draco muttered.

"Took me all of ten minutes of throwing money at the Italians to let me on the next train home. What the fuck happened?"

Draco shrugged, "No idea."

Blaise snorted, "What do you mean, 'no idea'?"

"It's not exactly like anybody rushed to tell me Blaise."

"Please. No one ever needs to tell you anything; you just manage to find out. It's a terrifying talent."

"Oh you flatter me."

"Come on Malfoy, you spent the better part of last year sneaking around trying to find out everything you could about this war and everyone in it. Don't even try to te - "

"Perhaps, but I spent the better part of this summer doing the Ministry's paperwork and trust me, their breathtaking incompetence makes that job a lot more time-consuming than it sounds."

"Your house is Death Eater headquarters."

"Alas. I've been living in London."

"WELL YOU'RE LIVING HERE NOW!"

"Dammit Zabini!" Draco slammed his glass against the table. "I. Don't. Know. No one knows!"

Blaise's mouth froze open. "No one?"

Draco leaned forward. "The Ministry's an bureaucratic disaster that spends most of its time arresting petty burglars and shopwindow robbers to alleviate the public panic," he hissed. "Every member of the Order I've seen the past two weeks looks like they've been bludgeoned over the head with a broomstick. I may have had a decent opportunity to turn Harry Potter into an alcoholic - "

"What?"

"Long story," Draco shook his head. "And to top all that off...not a single Death Eater has claimed it. Not one."

Blaise shook his head, "Why?"

"I stayed in London when the news came out, didn't come home. I asked my mother and Rabastan about it. They said this place was in disarray for days. No one was bragging, no one said they'd done it...even the rejoicing was subdued because everyone was too confused and, you know what, they'd never admit it, but they were afraid too. Not one of them acted like they'd seen it coming. And the Dark Lord? He's been gone all summer, doing I'm-not-even-sure-Bella-or-Snape-know-quite-what. He came back for one day, the day before Dumbledore's funeral, to straighten everyone out. And even then, not a single Death Eater - not the Dark Lord himself - stepped up to claim that they'd killed him. Or that they knew who did. They just spent the day drinking and celebrating what looks to be a gigantic spot of luck."

"Albus Dumbledore didn't just drop dead," Blaise breathed.

"Well, I agree, it's a little unlikely," Draco spat. "But I can't tell you who or what killed him."

"Could - could it have been a secret assignment? The Dark Lord privately asking someone to assassinate him?"

"That's possible. That's logical. Who knows?" Draco shrugged again. He'd resumed his blasé, sarcastic manner and was sipping at his scotch again without looking at Blaise.

"Or an accident, but - but how - "

"You know, it could've been an army of flobberworms; they're pretty dangerous little bugger - "

"Draco."

"What?" Draco snapped. "How many times do I need to repeat it: I don't know. And quite frankly, I don't want to know. I haven't really been thinking about it, I don't have any burning desire to start, and I would suggest you do the same."

Blaise laughed incredulously, "Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy? Albus Dumbledore himself is suddenly found dead and you, who if I recall loves almost nothing better than knowing everything about everyone's business, aren't the least bit curious about it?"

"No," Draco stressed between gritted teeth. "I'm not. Because the more curious you get and the more you know, the more dangerous people are going to be interested. And since when do you kiss Albus Dumbledore's ass?"

Blaise ignored the question, "Come on, you always want to know more."

"I want to live!" Draco smashed his glass down again and this time the alcohol rose up and splattered over the tabletop. "Wake up Zabini. You're not at your uncle's Academy anymore. All hell is about to break lose, and every single one of us is going be caught up in it. The only thing that interests me is making sure I'm left standing when it's over. I don't care that Albus Dumbledore's dead, and I don't care who's next, as long as it's not me. And I certainly don't have any intention of putting my neck on the line for the sake of 'curiosity.' If you're thinking of doing anything different then you're a bloody fool."

Blaise couldn't reply immediately. He stared at Draco in silence for a few minutes, his face frozen in disbelief. "Do you not want there to be a war?" he finally managed to ask.

Draco snorted, "That's a stupid question."

"Why, because I should already know the answer?"

"Because it's irrelevant. There's going to be a war, whether I or you or anyone else wants there to be or not."

Blaise decided there was no point in arguing. He shot Draco a frustrated glare and slumped low in his seat.

"Why do you care so much anyway?" Draco asked.

Blaise shook his head, "I don't know. It's - it's Dumbledore."

"I reiterate, since when do you kiss Albus Dumbledore's ass?"

"I'm not," Blaise protested. "I know the fawning over him is unwarrented. I know they've whitewashed his past."

"Not to mention his family's," Draco quipped. "Murder, bestiality..."

Blaise ignored him, "But still. He - he defeated Grindelwald Draco. He did things that - that no one before him had even imagined could be done. All the hero worship aside, he was a massively powerful wizard."

Draco pursed his lips but didn't reply.

"And last time," Blaise continued, his voice strained. "Last time Hogwarts was the only place in England no one tried to touch. It was safe. They say - they say even he was afraid of Dumbledore." Blaise flinched as the words came out of his mouth and nervously turned to check behind him again. He waited for Draco to say something. When he didn't, Blaise looked up at him apprehensively. Draco was watching him closely, a harsh but inscrutable expression on his face. It was like those cold grey eyes were staring right through him, and Blaise flinched again.

"I don't know, it's just..." he continued. "Albus Dumbledore, he was calm and assured and - and in charge and powerful. And he didn't panic, and he never seemed to be seconds away from going mad. Unlike everyone else. I guess - I guess somewhere in my mind I justassumed he'd be at Hogwarts and that - that whatever insanity went on everywhere else, at least school would be stable. Or even, that regardless of everything, he - he at least would be able to keep the worst insanity at bay. And God, I - I didn't like the man or admire him or - or even respect him, but picking up that newspaper and finding out that he was dead was like hearing that some restraint's been torn off and that now there's no one's who can - I don't know, it's unsettling. It's - it - " Blaise's voice cracked. He stared intently down at the floor. He could feel Draco's gaze still boring into him, but he couldn't bring himself to look up again.

"What did you See this summer Blaise?" Draco finally asked.

Blaise grimaced as he turned to his friend, who was still looking at him with that same cold analytic composure. Until then, he hadn't really realized how much he'd been counting on Draco to simply laugh, scoff, yell...anything but give him that look. "I - it doesn't matter," he mumbled.

Draco raised an eyebrow knowingly and Blaise once again looked around in anxiety, before shaking his head, "You know what. Forget it." He jumped out of his seat and hurried across the room, slamming one of the sets of doors open as he walked out.

"Blaise! Come on mate! No more jokes." Draco shouted. He sighed, grabbed the bottle of scotch, and followed his friend through the game room, down a brief corridor, and through his own large, elaborate bedroom. Blaise was leaning against the railing outside on the terrace, the uncomfortable, pained expression still on his face.

"What's going on?" Draco asked as he walked up to him.

"Just wanted some air," Blaise muttered.

"Don't give me that." Draco grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him slightly. "What did you See?"

Blaise shook him off. "No one we know or care about. Nothing you'd find interesting," he mumbled again.

"Try me."

Blaise sighed.

"Blaise. Blaise, it's me."

"I SAW PEOPLE DYING ALRIGHT," Blaise shouted. He swallowed heavily and his voice kept breaking as he continued. "Hundreds of them, and not just Muggles or Mudbloods either. I saw things burning en masse. I saw blood running through the streets. Literally - literally small rivers of it. I saw whole villages being wiped out. The lucky ones pulled out of their houses and just Avada Kedavra'ed. The others tortured until they couldn't even scream anymore. And not only Crucio'ed. I - I saw magic I hadn't even imagined existed. I saw a man getting his skin peeled straight off. I saw bands of werewolves tearing people to shreds, Dementors sucking souls left and right, people going mad, people killing themselves and their children just to get out of the way. Wastelands everywhere. Bodies lining the sidewalks; bodies being dragged through the streets. I - I - " Blaise spat angrily and grabbed the bottle from Draco, taking a large swig of it before he continued, talking quickly now that he had the chance to let it all out, "I saw piles of corpses being gathered together and set alight. Everywhere just death. And panic. And starvation. And screaming. Until I'd have left the vision and I could still smell it and still hear it. And close my eyes at night and still see it." By then Blaise's words were just hollow, "All across the country, rich and poor, men, women, children, cities, hovels...anywhere, everywhere deaths and mutilations and rapes and horrors that don't even have names. And the worst part wasn't viewing it in my head or being haunted by it afterwards. It was knowing without any doubt that given the proper sequence of events, those things would inevitably happen to all those people. It was knowing all along that every single event was going to happen exactly like I was Seeing it and that nothing and no one could change that, because if I was already Seeing it, that meant it was fate and you can't - you can't - " Blaise's voice broke again.

"You can't cheat fate," Draco whispered.

"Yeah. Yeah, you can't cheat fate." Blaise shook his head, "I - I guess I just want someone to snap me out of it and remind me that it's worth it."

"No you don't," Draco said. "You want someone who should be telling you that it's worth it to tell you that you're right."

Blaise froze and finally looked up at him. Draco's face was completely unperturbed, calm and emotionless, as if he'd barely registered the things he'd just heard. Of course Blaise knew that wasn't true, that Draco always heard everything, but the cold tranquility still made him want to shudder. "Well?" he muttered.

Draco smiled wryly, "Do I need to say it?"

Blaise grunted, "I guess not."

"But you'd feel better if I did."

It wasn't a question. Blaise grunted again.

Draco sighed, "You are right, and it's not worth it. He's not worth it."

He took the bottle from Blaise, leaned against the railing himself, and drank. The two stood silently in the cold, looking out over the rolling grounds of Malfoy Manor: three thousand acres, almost two thousand unlandscaped and relatively untamed. It was an incomparable view, not another house or village in sight. At that moment, given where they were and what they'd just admitted aloud, the isolation felt appropriate.

"We grew up," Draco finally broke the silence, "being told stories about an ideal world without Muggles or Mudbloods, a world where we had all the power because we deserved it, we were born to it, we were strong enough to take it for ourselves. Like it supposedly had been in the old glory days. We heard all the greatest hits from the First War: everything that had gone just according to plan. And being the greedy, ambitious, abominable bastards you know that we are, we came up with a glorious fantasy of what the second coming of Voldemort would be like."

Blaise winced, but managed to bite his tongue. He was, after all, the one who'd opened the subject.

"Of course what you realize now is that missing from all these stories of grandeur," Draco continued, his voice still shockingly cool and detached, "is the slightest idea of what any of it actually meant and what it would cost to get there. It's easy to dream of war. Purifying the wizarding world? That sounds _simple_. It's a different matter to actually fight and watch men and women die, and another entirely to kill someone yourself. There's no glamor in it. Not if you're sane anyway."

Draco laughed, and a shudder ran down Blaise's back again, "A storm's coming Zabini. The only reason it's not here yet is that the man about to set it off is waiting for his perfect moment. But when it does hit," Draco whistled, "well, I'd bet a good deal of my fortune that what you saw isn't going to be the half of it. And we're not ready. No one is, not the Ministry, not the Order, not even the Death Eaters. What happened last time, that's going to be nothing in comparison. Child's play. I doubt even the great Albus Dumbledore was prepared. How could he be? How does anyone even begin to imagine it?"

Blaise couldn't help himself. "I'm a Seer," he scoffed. "What's your excuse?"

Draco wiped the smirk off his face, glared at him, and took another drink without replying.

Blaise tried to focus on the forest again. The silence fell heavily over the two boys as they lost themselves to their own thoughts. When Blaise finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, "Draco..."

His friend grunted.

"Your nightmares..." Blaise looked over at him anxiously. He could see Draco's jaw clench almost immediately, and he knew that this, above anything else, was dangerous ground.

"What about them?" Draco mumbled in the end.

Blaise swallowed, "What are they like?"

"They're not visions."

"...That's not what I asked."

Draco's grip on the railing tightened. "Twisted," he finally said.

"How do you live with them?"

To Blaise's surprise, Draco smirked again, "I have 'abnormal empathic responses' and 'almost nonexistent emotional expressivity,' remember?"

Blaise shivered again and didn't respond.

"Look on the bright side," Draco continued, in a tone that made it clear that the subject was closed. "If my family's any indication, it seems there comes a point where you're just too numbed and corrupted by it all to be affected anymore. Alas, you're far too decent a person for that to happen anytime soon."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't entirely a compliment."

Blaise didn't reply. His face had suddenly gone very pale. He turned around and slid to the floor, leaning his back against the railing. "It's not like I have enough time for it to make a difference anyway," he muttered.

"Wha - ?"

"I'm gonna die Draco," Blaise breathed. "I'm going to die just like all the others. I'm going to be one of those bodies."

"Blaise..."

"Don't. Not even you can talk that away. No one can't cheat fate remember?"

Draco sighed and slowly sat down next to him.

"I always repeat it to myself you know: I am going to die. Not sixty years in the future. Soon. I am going to die. " Blaise whispered. "I remind myself every day. But it never sounds any...less unreal. You'd think after all this time - "

"That's enough," Draco cut him off firmly.

"You'd think I should be used to it. I should be able to handle knowing that - "

"I said that's enough."

"You don't know what it's like."

"I know what happened in Prague."

The color fled from Blaise's face. " I - I can't help it," he finally whispered.

"...There are things worse than death you know."

Blaise turned and looked at him incredulously. "Easy for you to say," he spat bitterly. "You have a shot."

"Doesn't mean my odds are good. Plus you said it yourself: by the end, the ones that just die are going to fortunate."

Blaise clenched his jaw and slammed his head against the railing. "It's still not _fair_" he hissed.

"Fair? Nothing about to happen is going to be _fair_." Draco sighed, "Who knows? Maybe you're lucky."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure that?" Blaise spat.

"Unlike everybody else, at least you're not expecting to live."

That time, Blaise couldn't help laughing, "You cynical bastard. That's downright depressing." Then he grabbed the bottle out of Draco's hand and downed what little was left.


	6. Author's Note II

Ah, I'm sorry. I dislike interrupting the flow of the story with author's notes, and I don't want to give the false impression that I've updated so soon. That being said, I don't want to take down the chapter that was just put up and then add it back again, so I promise this'll be brief.

First, a lot of people asked me about my old story. Unfortunately, I have no idea where to find it. To be honest, I don't even remember it too perfectly. I just happened to be moving and found a USB where I'd saved this story and all the files and notes and story outlines that were associated with it. Just a bunch of word documents. I decided to revise and publish them on here but I can't bear to just throw them all away; too much of my younger self was devoted to it. But unfortunately, I have nothing of my older story remaining. Sorry to those who are disappointed! If it makes anyone feel satisfied, I'm pretty sure Draco and Hermione did end up together in that one. (That is, by the way, not to signify they will in this story.)

Secondly, I wanted to ask people a question: Do you prefer the REALLY long chapters that are posted much less frequently or would you prefer more frequent postings of smaller chapters?

Thirdly, to makeup for this author's note – which again I understand may be inconvenient – I've included a brief excerpt from the next chapter!

* * *

_On the Hogwarts Express_:

_ "Morons," Draco muttered as Crabbe and Goyle shuffled away. He turned around and sneered at Harry, "You're going to ruin my reputation, going on like that."_

_ "I hate to be the one to break it to you Malfoy, but I don't think I could do much to make it worse." _

_ "I know, and I'd prefer you didn't try making it any better either."_

_ Harry could hear Hermione suppressing a gasp as Draco slid the compartment door closed behind him, strolled inside, and threw himself lazily into Ron's empty seat next to him. He sighed dramatically._

_ "How've you been Potter? Missed me?"_

_ "Well, between the angry muttering, the occasional philosophical soliloquies, and the sudden bursts of breathtaking violence, who wouldn't? _

_ "I do have such charming qualities." Draco said smoothly._

_ Harry rolled his eyes, "Must run in the family. How are they by the way?"_

_ "Hm. Let's see…my father's still in prison. My mother's wallowing in semi-depression. And there's a pedophilic werewolf running around my property with his henchmen trying to steal various expensive family artifacts to sell on the black market." He shrugged, "I suppose things have been better."_

_ "For some reason, I don't feel even a little bit sorry for you," Harry laughed. _

_ "Now, now Potter. No need to act so hostile. I'm here to be helpful."_

* * *

Thanks for your interest in this story everyone! Please continue to read! Oh and review of course! I'd love to hear people's thoughts on where the story may or may not be going.


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